by Lian Dolan
“Take a sabbatical or resign?” Nothing got past Tricia when she was in the zone. Straight Up was on its last legs. Nobody takes “a sabbatical” from a failing business.
Serena was stalling, not wanting to clarify her intentions when Maggie, who’d been quiet since she stopped sobbing, saved her by erupting, “Oh my God, I remember that guest cottage. Ben Winthrop! Remember him, Liza? He was so cute. He went to Exeter. Remember that night after Molly Miller’s deb party? That cheesy square dance thing in her barn and then we all went to the Winthrops’ giant house because they had a foosball table.” Maggie used air quotes around foosball table and what it really meant was anyone’s guess, but it cracked the two of them up. “And he kept trying to rap that Jay-Z song even though he’s like the whitest guy ever. His dad has been our congressman for what, like, forty years?”
“Eighteen terms,” Tricia corrected Maggie.
“The congressman and his wife are one of the few Southport connections I have in DC. They invite me to things all the time, as a former constituent,” Serena said, not adding that as a member of the press, there was an ulterior motive to most of the invites. Lucy Winthrop’s strategy was Always Be Pitching.
“The congressman and Mrs. Winthrop were at the White House when our father was an honoree,” Liza said, then immediately regretted her words. She sounded like the worst kind of entitled namedropper. It was the sort of comment she would have lectured Fitz or Vivi about on the car ride home. She quickly changed the subject. “Going back to the foosball night, Mags, you had on those purple cowboy boots and that crumpled cowboy hat. And what was that tank top?”
“I was going for Sheryl Crow, the early years. I thought I looked good.”
“So did Ben Winthrop, Foosball Master.”
The amount of time any Sweeney could carry on a serious conversation without a break for irreverence was limited, especially Liza and Maggie, who had shared so many misadventures. For years, Tricia had nodded along with any Liza and Maggie memory, because she was usually too young to have been included, but had heard the same stories over and over again, so at some point it became imprinted in her hippocampus like she had been there. Despite wanting to stay detached, Tricia, too, was laughing at “Ben Winthrop, Foosball Master.” It had become a family catchphrase for whenever one of the sisters met a guy who was really into himself.
Maggie observed Serena’s silence and apologized. “Sorry, old family joke.”
The sisters settled down, taking the conversation back to the endless questions about Serena’s life. Tricia asked about her job, her outside interests and volunteer work, her travels. Liza was interested in Georgetown, claiming she was thinking of opening up a branch of her gallery there. (It was true. Whit had gone to college there and Liza was smitten by the area, but Serena assumed she was bluffing in an attempt to suss out her living situation.) And Maggie asked Serena about her boyfriends, her skin care regimen, and whether she still played tennis. The conversation was light and bright with many mutual connections and common points of interest, but Serena couldn’t shake the feeling of being an outsider. Would she ever?
“She’s a writer, she’s going to write about this,” Tricia said. The sisters stood at the window of Richardson & Blix, watching this new character in their lives get into her car, a generic rental sedan. No doubt Serena could feel six eyes on her, but she didn’t look up. Tricia admired her discipline, but urged caution. “I don’t like the fact that she quit her job to hang out here all summer in the foosball palace. What’s that about? I’ll tell you what. She’s writing a book proposal.”
“You’re paranoid. I like her,” Maggie said shrugging her shoulders and daring Tricia to challenge her assessment. “She’s interesting and she’s interested. She’s like us but with better SAT scores.”
“Hey, speak for yourself.” Tricia rarely threw her superior test-taking skills and Ivy League education in her sisters’ faces, but, in this instance, she made an exception. “I feel like I could take her in Jeopardy!”
“I liked her, too.” Liza sided with Maggie on emotional issues and with Tricia on pragmatic matters. This was pure emotion.
“Like her how? What does that mean in practical terms? Sunday dinners at the house? Do we send out a Christmas card announcement with a picture of the four of us in matching sweaters that says, Meet our new sister, Serena Tucker Sweeney? Is that what we want?”
“I’m only saying I like her.” Liza pushed back. “She’s professional and she’s got her act together. She’s clearly not some gold digger. Did you see that trio of diamond bangles? Spectacular. I don’t think she’s in it for the forty-two bucks we’re going to inherit. Plus, you know those Tuckers are old money. There’s a bank account somewhere with Serena’s name on it—the house in Georgetown, the trips to Jackson Hole she mentioned. You don’t get those on a journalist’s salary. But didn’t she seem like one of us?”
Tricia was not backing down. “First of all, everyone’s in it for the money. That may not be her motivation now, but it will become paramount. Trust me. And second, everybody we grew up with in this tiny bubble seems like one of us on the surface. We knew all the same people. We had all the same experiences. Public school, private school, prep school—it didn’t matter here. We all went to the Browns’ Christmas party every year. Of course there’s a certain familiarity.”
“I’d invite her to Thanksgiving,” Maggie declared, though never in her life had she ever hosted a holiday meal. “What are you afraid of? That she might be a really lovely addition to our family? I think it’s wild that she’s a writer, like Dad. I mean, none of us are. Like we were afraid to compete against Mom and especially Dad in that arena. But not Serena. And that she looks so much like you, Tricia. How had we not noticed that before?”
“Because we weren’t on the lookout for neighbors who looked like us. Why would we suspect that our neighbor was really our sister? That’s like a soap plot, not real life.” Tricia was not softening. The fact that there was a physical resemblance only made her feel more resentful, not less.
“Well, it’s our real life now,” Maggie said. “All I’m saying is that I’m not opposed to, you know, welcoming her.”
“Is this because you feel bad that it was your fault because you took that damn DNA test?”
“You know what, Tricia? It wasn’t my fault. It was Dad’s fault, okay?” Maggie was right and her tone shut Tricia up on that subject for good. “And maybe in your world, people are perfect, but not in mine. I think forgiveness and happiness go hand in hand. Letting a new person into your life may bring you immeasurable gifts. Gifts you can’t imagine right now in this wood-paneled law office with the unflattering lighting. You should open yourself up to the possibility that Serena might be a gift. She may help us work through all the crap that Dad left us to handle. Maybe she’s the reward. That’s all.” Every once in a while, all the mumbo jumbo that Maggie had internalized through meditation retreats, and self-improvement classes, and Burning Man bubbled up to the surface in a cohesive statement that impressed listeners. “Let’s stay open to what our relationship with Serena might become.” Liza nodded in agreement. Tricia was outnumbered.
“One thing’s for sure. I’m not leaving. There’s no way I can go back to work until we find this manuscript and get everything sorted out at the house,” Tricia said, turning to Liza, who was surprised by the announcement.
“You don’t need to do that. I can handle it,” Liza said, because she was required by The Law of the Oldest Sister to sacrifice herself at every opportunity. “I mean, I need to get back to work, too. But I’m used to multitasking.” Another Liza compulsion was to remind her sisters that she had a job, even though they had never diminished her work at the gallery. It was Liza who had a chip on her shoulder about what Whit called her “jobby” and her lack of a college degree. “I love my studio manager, but she’s not up to the task of mounting the summer show. It’s called Still Life with Sunflowers. But there’s a period after ‘Still’ an
d a period after ‘Life’—get it? We have about a dozen artists showing.”
Tricia held firm. “This is too much for you to do on your own. It’s not fair to dump this all on you, although I have no doubt you could do it all on your own. You’re completely capable, that’s not the issue. Like Serena, I haven’t had a break in fifteen years, either. I need one and now is the time. I’m needed here more than I’m needed at the office on some class action suit that twenty-five lawyers are already working on. There’s some sort of family leave provision in my contract I can take advantage of, although no one ever does. But I can and I will. I could use a summer here in Southport, too.”
It was true. Tricia had been running, literally and figuratively, since the day their mother died. High school was a dead sprint of academic and athletic achievement, slowed only by bouts of grieving for her mother and caretaking of her father. College was the same, though the grief subsided and her father recovered. After graduating from law school and passing the bar, she barely took a full weekend off, never mind a proper vacation. Even the few times she’d been wrecked mentally and physically—and there had been weeks, months of difficulty—she powered through. Yes, she’d even gone in to work on Christmas Day before hopping on the train out to Southport to open gifts. She wasn’t exactly sure what the good folks at Kingsley, Maxwell & Traub would say about her summer sabbatical, but she would make it happen.
“Then I’ll stay, too,” Maggie volunteered, thinking of her budding relationship with Gray more than her relationship with Serena or helping her sisters. “I can talk my way out of those obligations in Mill River. Or at the very least, show up there every few weeks whenever the bus full of AARP members from White Plains shows up.”
“Aren’t you obligated to actually live and work there in order to get the stipend and the housing?” Liza had to ask, bearing more responsibility for Maggie’s fellowship than Maggie.
“Let’s be honest, the only reason I got this fellowship was because I am William Sweeney’s daughter. Every time I’ve been forced to have a studio open house, a group of lovely women stands around watching me paint for five minutes and then asks about Dad. Or Mom. Or Mom and Dad together as if they were some sort of Jack and Jackie because they all read the Maeve book. If I tell them I need to take a break from public life because of Dad’s death, it will only add to my mystique.”
Liza understood. It happened at the gallery, too, mainly with the husbands who were less interested in art and more interested in discussing their literary hero.
Maggie had a brainstorm to seal the deal. “I’ve been thinking that doing a series of pieces of the house might be fitting. I could work out of the conservatory, like Mom did.” In truth, she hadn’t thought of painting anything at all until that second. It was the perfect plan to get her out of most of the work that needed to be done at Willow Lane, but still in the area to be close to Gray. Tricia was not impressed, but Liza lit up.
“Oh my gosh, yes. I would love that. I would love you to do that, Maggie. It would be so meaningful to have and to sell, and frankly”—Liza paused, then added—“pretty lucrative, I think! We could market to William Sweeney fans.” There was laughter because there was always laughter, no matter how dark the subject.
Even Cap Richardson laughed as he walked back into the conference room. “Your father would be proud, Liza. He always said if anyone was going to make money exploiting Bill Sweeney, it should be Bill Sweeney. You’ve inherited the right. But keep it classy.”
“Always, Cap. Always,” Liza said. “We’ve decided to present a united front. Tricia and Maggie will stay here in Southport until the manuscript is found and the estate is in the black.”
Cap endorsed their plan. “I think that’s wise. This could drift forward for months, even years, unless you make a concerted effort to sort everything out. I look forward to working with you all.”
Liza turned to her sisters. “Wait, are we really doing this? You’re both staying for the summer?” Maggie and Tricia nodded. “Thank you.”
Liza reached to hug Tricia, who flinched and held her off. “You know I’m not a hugger. I get that it’s been a bad week, but let’s not start now.”
Tricia hung back as her sisters left the office. They were headed to The Grey Goose for lunch, probably to dissect every single word of what Serena had said and everything she was wearing, then back to the house to hunt for the manuscript. But she wanted a quick word with Cap. “So, what did you think?”
“Clearly, she’s more like Mitchell than Birdie.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mitch Tucker sold insurance to almost every person in this town. Well, at least, to every good soul that attended Trinity Church. He kept a lot of secrets about the value of people’s lives, both in terms of money and in terms of prestige. The two values were not always aligned. People trusted Mitch because he was trustworthy. Birdie, on the other hand, was a terrible gossip, slipping in commentary about her neighbors, the members of the club, the board at the library. She was entertaining if you were stuck in a corner with her at a party after a few gin and tonics, but she could be vicious, sometimes downright mean. Serena takes after her father. No wonder her sources trust her, her editors.” Cap poured himself another cup of coffee. “I don’t know what she’ll do with all of this—the information, the estate, the instant family. But I believe she will take her time in deciding. She won’t do anything rash or damaging in the short term.”
“Did she say that?”
“In so many words. As I walked her out, she said she’s taking the summer to figure out, quote, ‘all her next steps.’ We have our clock.”
“Good point.” Tricia’s phone pinged. No doubt it was a text from Maggie telling her to hurry, but she ignored it. “Oh, Cap, there was a card in my father’s desk I was curious about. From an archivist at Yale.” She fished through her bag and found it. “Raj Chaudhry. Is that name familiar? I’m thinking that working with an archivist may be helpful, even as I go through all the papers looking for the manuscript. We need to clean out the boathouse. It makes sense to do it in an orderly manner, but that’s not really my thing. I wondered if this Raj guy could be helpful.”
“Oh, I forgot all about Raj.”
“Do you know him?”
“I spoke to him on the phone after your father interviewed him. Your father hired him for the summer to do exactly what you are talking about—organize his papers for the archives at Yale. He seemed like a nice young man who was thrilled to dive in. There was some sort of budget or grant for his work through Yale; Dean Payson set it all up. I haven’t gotten a call from the college yet, but I’m sure they’re eager to secure his papers. And poor Raj. He’s probably sitting at home wondering who to call. I was drawing up some nondisclosure papers and such. But I think your father even promised him a room for the summer.”
“Glad I asked. I’ll set up a meeting. It occurred to me that maybe my father kept the memoir at his office at Yale. This Raj guy might even know where. I seriously doubt my father could have wiped his computer clean of all files. Someone under the age of forty must have helped him; he couldn’t have done it alone. I’m headed to New Haven tomorrow to search his office. I’ll try to meet with this guy.”
Cap laughed and then got serious. “Your sisters are lucky to have you, Tricia. You’re right to be cautious.”
“Oh, another thing I’m cautious about is the royalty income. Does that seem low to you? After you mentioned the number, I did some digging. Dad’s books are still taught in a lot of high schools and colleges. Never Not Nothing is on a lot of syllabi and so is Bitter Fruit. Do you think Lois’s accounting is on the up-and-up when it comes to the course adoption income?”
“I don’t and I was going to speak to you about that. I mentioned it to your father about two years ago after he told me that his royalties were drying up. It didn’t check out to me. But he was reluctant to pursue any inquiry in that area—said it was a show of bad faith and Lois had just landed him t
he memoir deal.”
“I’m all for a show of bad faith if we can do it discreetly. I don’t think the royalty income will make us millionaires, but I also don’t think Lois deserves more than her ten percent.”
“I’ll start to reach out to publishing people. See if the numbers sound right to them.”
“Thanks, Cap.” And she gave him a hug because he’d always be there for her.
Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Serena could feel the sisters staring down at her but she willed herself to get into the car before she let herself relax. She was exhausted, shaking. Damn it. She liked them. She liked those Sweeney sisters. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might feel any connection to them. Curiosity about them? Yes. Connection to them? No.
She wanted to stay detached, to give herself time to decide what to do with the revelation that she was the daughter of William Sweeney. She walked into that conference room determined to take control of the conversation and get as much information out of the sisters as possible. She had the sense that something wasn’t entirely on the up-and-up about the estate or the death. She had picked up on some murmurs at the wake about his recent foray back into gambling and later overhead a conversation between two New York–publishing types, both women in their forties who looked to be in positions of power, one of whom was bemoaning to the other, “We’ll never get that memoir now. This is a huge deal for us. I’m sure that advance is long gone.”
Serena added those conversations to the pile of research she’d already done on her birth father. The gambling, the drinking, the finances in shambles—that was standard operating procedure for William Sweeney, self-documented in his books and essays. But this missing memoir was a new piece of the puzzle. Could she be in it? She’d have to research the publishing announcement and see why the editor or whoever she was said it was “a huge deal.” Something was up and she wanted to find out what it was.
