by Lian Dolan
“I get it. My father’s work tended to speak to males at vulnerable ages and stages. In today’s parlance, a publisher would say that a coming-of-age story like Never Not Nothing was targeted at the adolescent male market.”
“True. And guilty.”
Tricia pulled a bottle of water out of the stocked mini-fridge in her father’s office and handed it to Raj. “Did my father pour you a Scotch and have you watch the sunset when you came to the house?”
“Yes.”
Tricia nodded. “That meant he liked you.”
Raj was quiet and then, “That means something to me.”
Tricia shifted topics with an all-business tone. “So how will this work? I’m not really familiar with the process of getting his papers from the boathouse to the archives here.”
“For the first few weeks, it will be organizational, figuring out what is on site, what’s valuable, a system of cataloguing that makes sense for your father’s work. Sometimes, that’s chronological, other times not. I could also catalogue by projects or genre. Then I digitize all the files on site. And then, we’ll pack them up and move them to our library for further study,” Raj answered. “I had planned on working with your father on additional research and annotation. That’s a tremendous loss to scholarship.” Then Raj backtracked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply my loss was greater than yours.”
“No worries. I appreciate what you do.” Tricia felt a sense of relief for the first time since Cap had read the will. Maybe her father’s reputation could be salvaged after the news about the lost memoir and the secret daughter were revealed. Raj was the key to legitimacy.
“Raj, I’m sure you understand that some of the material you uncover is personal and sensitive. We had our lawyer draw up a nondisclosure agreement. There are a few . . .” Tricia searched for the right word. “. . . a few topics that may arise in your work that we as the family would like to keep private in the short term. This is a limited-time NDA. We don’t intend to silence you forever. There are details about the estate we’d like to work out before anyone speaks to the press or to any other entities. I’m sure you can understand. The term of the contract is one year.”
Tricia slid the five-page agreement across the desk. He didn’t hesitate to pick it up and start reading it, despite Tricia saying, “Feel free to run that by a lawyer.”
“No need,” Raj answered. “I have a pretty good working knowledge of contract law. I interned in a law firm in college.”
“That means you’re pretty much a lawyer.”
“You must be a lawyer?”
“I am. But I also have a library card, so I’m pretty much an archivist, too.”
“I deserved that.” Raj worked his way slowly through the document and then announced, “Can we make the term six months? There may be an academic paper in this work for me and I don’t want to get delayed in publishing it. I’m not interested in your father’s personal life, only his work.” He slid the agreement back across the desk.
Tricia took a pen and found the appropriate clause. She crossed out the dates, then looked up at Raj. “Nine months.”
“Seven.”
“I can back out of this entire situation, you know. We’re asking for privacy.”
“I think you need me. Seven months. That will give me time to do the work, write it up, and find a journal interested in publishing it. I can live with seven months.”
“Fine, seven months. Please don’t test this.” Tricia tried to keep the exhilaration out of her voice. She loved negotiating and she liked this ambitious librarian.
As soon as he signed the agreement, she was able to ask about the most pressing issue at hand. “We’re looking for the manuscript of my father’s memoir. But it’s nowhere—not on his desktop or laptop, and we can’t find a hard copy in Southport or here. Would you know anything about that?”
“Ah, hence the NDA,” Raj said, eyes wide open. “Yes, yes I do. We talked about it quite a bit. It’s how I got to know your father. He’d come into the library, requesting books he wanted to reference in his memoir. I’d put together stacks every month for him and we’d talk about what he was working on.”
Tricia made a mental note to circle back to the content of their conversations later, but for now, she needed a straight answer. “Sorry to skip ahead here, but did you see the actual manuscript?”
“Your father asked me to put the file on a thumb drive and erase it from his hard drive. So that’s what I did.”
“When?”
“That day in May. The day I went to Southport to talk about the project and see his office. Before we had the Scotch and after we had talked for hours.”
“Do you know where that thumb drive is?”
“No. Your father said he wanted to put it somewhere safe but I didn’t ask where that was. He also had a hard copy, as I recall, in one of those manuscript boxes. I got the impression he was going to keep them together. He said to me that he wasn’t quite done remembering. He wanted to sit on the manuscript for a while.”
He wasn’t quite done remembering. Oh, Dad. “Are you sure he didn’t say anything about where he was going to hide the thumb drive?”
“No, and I wouldn’t have asked, either. I didn’t know him well, but he seemed very at ease that day, once I had erased the files and given him the drive. I’d gotten to know him in the library, of course, and attended some public lectures he gave, but I’d never seen him so . . . content. I think that’s the right word. He was very happy that I could help him that day and for the summer. Like he wanted to get his work in order.”
Tricia looked at Raj. She could understand why her father might have relaxed in his presence. He exuded competency, reliability. And a little something extra that held her attention, so she found herself saying, “The room in the boathouse is still available, if you wanted to stay. I think that’s the arrangement my father offered and I would, I mean, we would like to honor that. Not like Southport is a hot spot, but it’s beautiful in the summer. I’ll be there, too.” She didn’t know why she added that last statement.
“I’d like that very much. I’d like to get out of New Haven and be there. With you . . .” Raj admitted, then covered, “. . . and the papers. Plus, I’ve already sublet my apartment to a medical student. I have nowhere else to go.”
Chapter 11
Maggie pulled the Prius into the gravel-and-oystershell driveway of Gray’s house on Harbor Road. She was headed back to Mill River for a few days to make her excuses to the lovely, and hopefully understanding, members of the Art Commission, explaining that she couldn’t be in residence for the summer because she had to shore up the Sweeney estate. And then she needed to pick up some fresh clothes and her cat Rufus. Tim the Line Cook had been on Rufus duty for the last week and Maggie was worried that Rufus would get attached, based on the photos Tim had been sending the last few days. Maggie had no intention of co-parenting a cat with Tim. But first, she needed to see Gray.
The Cunninghams had built one of the only modern houses on Southport Harbor on a subdivided lot back in the ’70s. Its construction had been the talk of the town for years, with a substantial number of tut-tutters who frowned on the abrupt architectural detour. (“I don’t understand why anyone would want to live in a big, ugly box when you could build a lovely Colonial,” Millie Reeves, the head of the Historical Society, had complained to Maeve Sweeney one afternoon after a few glasses of Chablis at a luncheon. Maeve had mimicked her for years later, much to her daughters’ delight, drawing out the words “lovely Colonial” for comedic effect.) But the lines of the Ulrich Franzen–designed house had held up over the decades, increasing in value as tastes changed. Finding this modern needle in a center-hall Colonial haystack would be a dream for some midcentury enthusiast or art collector.
Gray had explained at breakfast the other day that his parents had retired to Sea Island and he had offered to spend a year living in the house restoring the floors, cabinets, and the suspended teak staircase that led
to the open second story overlooking the water. After spending five years in Montana, one in rehab and four in an informal apprenticeship to a master woodworker, building houses for “rich tech guys who wanted to play rancher,” he had returned to town because he felt he owed his parents. Gray explained, “They sort of gave up on maintenance the last decade. It needs a little TLC before the house goes on the market. Plus, I need to make amends with about half the town of Southport, including your sister, but most of all my parents. It will probably take me at least a year to do penance.”
Now, Maggie grabbed the gift from the passenger seat and checked her makeup in the mirror. She liked what she saw, so she headed to find Gray. Before she could knock, he opened the heavy wood door. “Hi.”
“You startled me.”
“Tulane?”
“One of my father’s favorite mugs. He loved New Orleans. Lectured at Tulane any time he was invited. He had a lot of writer friends there and they’d have these wild weekends. My mom loved it, too.” Maggie turned to look at the sparkling view over the water. She didn’t want to cry in front of Gray, for many reasons, not the least of which was her mascara. “I thought you might appreciate it. You spent a year at Tulane, right?”
“Three semesters, two of which I had passing grades.”
Recovered, she turned back to Gray. Oh, no! Was that shame on his face? “Too close to home?” she asked, hoping her gesture hadn’t offended.
“Not at all. I had some good times in New Orleans, too. I wish I could remember more of them,” he joked comfortably. “Thank you. This is something, to have Bill Sweeney’s mug.”
Relief. “Well, I’m off. Headed to Mill River to tie up some loose ends and get my painting supplies, so I can be here this summer.” Maggie was hoping he would cut her off with some dramatic gesture or declaration of attraction, but Gray kept staring quietly, cradling the old mug in his hands. “So, do you want to come for dinner on Sunday? I’ll be back and making a quinoa salad and soft-shell crabs.”
“I’ll put it on the calendar. Let me know if I need to bring anything.”
“Do you cook?”
“No. But I make bowls,” Gray said, indicating a beautiful walnut bowl on the counter filled with lemons and limes. “Will you be making salad? Do you need a bowl?”
“These are gorgeous. You made this?” Maggie picked up the bowl and ran her hands over the smooth wood. She gently placed it back down on the counter. “Like works of art. You should bring one of these. Liza may want to sell them at the gallery.” As soon as the words came out of Maggie’s mouth, she regretted them. She wanted to keep Gray to herself a little longer. “Maybe I could bring my quinoa and crabs over here? I don’t know if Willow Lane is right for entertaining.”
“Sure. Let’s do that. I know Willow Lane is beautiful at sunset, but it’s not too bad here, either. When you look across the harbor at the huge houses on Sasco Hill, the windows glow like gold. At least, that’s what I think.”
Window panes of gold. An image flashed in Maggie’s mind’s eye, a painting. Sometimes, when she least expected it, she returned to her art. “I’d like to see that.”
He walked over and kissed her lightly, very lightly, on the lips. “See you Sunday. I gotta get back to work.”
Yes, Sunday.
The cool blues and the soothing grays of Liza’s living room never failed to relax her. Every time she entered the front door, she felt like she was leaving one world behind and entering another. That’s good design, Liza thought, as she hung her jacket up in the front hall and tossed her bag on the bench nearby.
Liza had worked with a talented interior designer out of Greenwich, Rigby Mayfair, to create the look of contemporary mixed with antiques in her Victorian house. “No oak, no scrolls of any kind” was Liza’s directive to her designer. “I don’t want this place to look like the Haunted Mansion. Clean, clean, clean lines and colors.” Rigby had delivered, creating a space that surprised and relaxed as soon as you walked in the door. Plus, it was the ultimate showroom for the art from her gallery. Liza had sold pieces right off the wall at her last committee meeting. Her friends needed to see how contemporary art could work in historic homes. Her living room did exactly that.
And for her services, Liza traded out several pieces of art to Rigby for her personal collection and agreed to split her commissions on any pieces Rigby acquired for her clients over the next two years. The two creative businesswomen enjoyed each other’s company and admired each other’s eye. Liza wished she had more friends in her life like Rigby—supportive but not draining. It often felt to Liza like she did all the heavy lifting, all the time in all her relationships. How did that happen?
“C’mon, Jack. You live here now, I guess.”
The old golden plodded through the living room to the kitchen, where he knew there would always be something on the floor. He’d spent enough time at Liza’s to feel at home, but clearly, he missed his true owner. Liza’s lab Bear greeted him with enthusiasm.
“Hey,” Liza called out to Whit. He’d sent her a text saying he had a change of plans and would be home for the weekend instead of working through it in North Carolina. She was excited to see him. The kids were at camp. Her sisters were living their own lives for a few days. And she was trying to put the reality of Serena out of her head until she plunged back into the organizational mountain that was Willow Lane on Monday. Whit was home. Maybe she could finally breathe. “We’re home.”
“In the kitchen,” a male voice called back.
Whit, still in his suit, no tie, was pouring himself a Scotch and eating the men’s health nut mix that Liza ordered for him from an online market that specialized in organic snacks and pantry ingredients. He looked tired, beat up, as he did a lot these days. The long hours, the travel, the stress of closing big deals had begun to take its toll on Whit.
A few years older than Liza, he’d turned forty last October and seemed to be aging rapidly. Less hair, less vigor, more back pain. Young Whit, the athletic guy who’d run up and down the AYSO soccer field doing his volunteer reffing stint even after a long week at work, was gone, replaced by the guy who’d nap on the couch on Saturdays while watching golf. Their social life had dwindled to practically zero. His work schedule was so erratic when he was in the middle of a deal, Liza couldn’t even count on him to show up at an event on a Saturday night, never mind an opening reception at the gallery on a Thursday. They connected less and less frequently—at dinner, over wine, in the bedroom—and neither had the guts to mention the distance between them. The last thing Liza wanted was to become one of those wives who confided to her friends in the ladies’ locker room that she only had sex once a month, but that was becoming their story more months than not.
Liza was only thirty-six; she’d had her kids young and still felt young, even though most of her Southport “mommy” friends with teenagers were a decade older. She didn’t want to age any faster than she needed to, but Whit’s energy loss had her worried for her own aging process. She’d be an empty nester in five years. She wanted to reinvigorate her life, but frankly, Whit was bringing her down. While she resisted, he embraced his sedentary, neatly paved future that revolved around British crimes dramas on Netflix, dinners at the club with the same few couples or his parents, and the occasional trip to the Caribbean. Only last month, after they’d managed to get themselves into Madison Square Garden to see a concert on a weeknight, Whit announced, “That’s it. No more concerts for me. My ears can’t take the noise.” Noise? It was Dave Matthews!
But tonight, Liza was filled with gratitude that he was here and that they could be alone together. It had been a year since the kids were last at camp and they’d had time to themselves. “I was happy to get your text. Why the change in plans? I thought you were staying in Durham this weekend?”
“I felt like I needed to be here. Hey, Jack.” Whit gave the dog a pat on the head and a belly rub. He loved that dog. “Do you want a drink?”
It was 4:30. That seemed a litt
le early, but what the hell. It had been a week. “Sure. A vodka tonic. I’ll cut some lime.”
Whit made the drink with his usual care. He was good at tending bar. It was one of the things that Liza had been drawn to when they first started dating fifteen years ago, that he was an attentive host and competent bartender at gatherings. He and some college buddies had been renting a small beach house in nearby Westport for the summer, commuting back and forth from New York City. Liza had known him for years, but their age difference meant they’d never been in school together. That, and Whit was a private-school kid all the way, from Country Day to St. Paul’s to Trinity for college. But in a small town, age differences fade in college and there were nights at the Shoe or house parties where they’d run into each other all the time. They connected at a Fourth of July party a few months after Gray had left, abandoned Liza, really, and she was in a vulnerable state. Her mother was dying and she wasn’t going back to college. Whit had made her a Long Island Iced Tea even though he wasn’t the official party host and his composure and care struck the exact right chord in Liza. Six months later, they were married.
Liza put down the four mugs she’d chosen from her father’s extensive collection, one for each of them: Wesleyan for Vivi, BC for Fitz, Trinity College Dublin for Whit, and Hamilton for her. Liza had wanted to go to Hamilton, but didn’t have the grades. This mug was as close as she was going to get. She washed the lime and cut it in quarters.
“What are those?” Whit asked her, setting down the vodka tonic.
“Mugs. You know, from my father’s mug collection. I thought everybody in the family should have one. Look, Trinity College Dublin for you. Close as I could get to your alma mater.”
“Great. Just what we need, more crap from you father’s house.”
