The Sweeney Sisters

by Lian Dolan

  Stepping back, Raj said, “She blurted it out after I noticed the physical resemblance between you and Serena. I think that’s her name.”

  “Yes, that’s her name. I’ll tell you what I know, but not today, not now. I need a break.” Was Raj bewitched by Serena, too? She was on the verge of furious, but trying not to show her frustration. “Do you want to go sailing or not?”

  “I don’t know how to sail.”

  She loved it when men admitted to not knowing something. “I do. It’s a beautiful afternoon.” Tricia wanted to be alone with him. “Please come.”

  Raj looked around at the mess in the boathouse, but the afternoon was beautiful. And so was Tricia. “All right, let’s play hooky.”

  Yes, let’s play hooky, Tricia thought.

  “You have a life preserver, right?”

  “They’re called PFDs. Personal Flotation Devices. And yes, of course we have them. It’s the law,” Tricia said. “You do know how to swim, though?”

  “I swim. But I also embrace flotation devices when available,” Raj answered. “Do I need special shoes?”

  “No. Those Converse I’ve seen you in are fine.”

  Raj noted that Tricia had noted his footwear. That must mean something. “Okay. I guess I can let you take me sailing in William Sweeney’s boat. It’s sort of like research.”

  “Does everything have to be research with you?”

  “Pretty much. But you’re the same.”

  “I was the same. But maybe not anymore.”

  Maggie picked up her phone and texted Gray: Big party here on the Fourth! Bring sparklers.

  Chapter 15

  The late afternoon sun was warm and the Winthrop pool was warmer, heated year-round because that’s how much money the Winthrops had. The congressman had been a swimmer at Princeton nearly fifty years ago, and Lucy claimed anytime someone from the press was nearby that her husband swam every day of the year, even in the dead of winter. “He’s a polar bear!” she would exclaim, leaving out the bit about the pool being heated to eighty-five degrees. “That hearty New England stock.”

  Serena was more of a floater than a swimmer and since settling into the guesthouse, she’d availed herself of the warm water every day. The pool was located on the lawn between the main house and the private beach. On a day like today, it was luxurious to float around in the deep end, staring at clouds with the sound of waves lapping in the background. This is going pretty well, Serena thought. The house tour today. The party next week. A possible connection with Liza. Serena felt sure she would have some idea after the Fourth of July where she stood with the sisters. The question in Serena’s mind was whether her story would be a warm-hearted memoir or painful exposé.

  “Hello, my dear. Iced tea?” Lucy was fast approaching, in some sort of vintage Lilly Pulitzer beach cover-up and floppy hat, carrying a tray with two glasses and a sense of urgency. Something was up. Serena braced for impact. Lucy had been fishing around all week for information on exactly what Serena was doing in the guesthouse and what her sabbatical entailed. It wasn’t impossible that DC sources could have informed her about the Straight Up resignation. Lucy lived in Southport most of the time, attending to her philanthropic interests and maintaining her award-winning garden, but she spent enough time in the capital to keep her contacts current.

  “I’d love some. Thank you.” Serena paddled over to the side of the pool and hopped out. Lucy studied her as she toweled off, like an art lover might study a Rodin bronze. Serena grew self-conscious, slipping into a cover-up she’d picked up at the hotel shop in Antigua during her last getaway with Ben.

  “Hmm. Now I see it,” Lucy said, as she settled into the lounge chair next to Serena. “I just got off the phone with your mother. I know.”

  Serena’s heart rate spiked. It was out, her secret was out there. In the hands of the most well-connected woman in town who could, if she wanted, weaponize the information, or at the very least, scoop Serena’s book pitch. Don’t panic. Early in her career, Serena had made mistakes with sources who opened conversations like Lucy did, announcing they knew the details. In several early interviews, Serena ended up giving her subjects more information than they gave her, simply by filling in the blanks for them with previously unknown information. “Know what, Lucy?”

  “About William Sweeney.”

  Okay, that was major. “What about him?”

  “Really, Serena. Are we going to do this? You know what about William Sweeney! That he’s your real father,” Lucy declared. Then, softening her tone, “It must have been quite a shock, my dear.”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What does that mean? Your mother said it was one of the gimmicky DNA tests they advertise everywhere.”

  “Yes. It was a lark. A gift certificate that I redeemed in a low moment.”

  “What was it like the minute you figured it out?”

  Nobody had asked Serena that yet. “Like winning Powerball, I imagine. Not the luck part, the disbelief. I kept refreshing my computer and my mind was racing but my body was paralyzed. I looked in the mirror and my face looked different. I couldn’t tell where I had come from. I needed to keep checking the results, as if they were going to disappear and everything was going to be normal again.”

  “But it won’t be.”

  “No. It’s changed everything in ways I couldn’t imagine,” Serena said, feeling comfortable talking to Lucy in a way she would never talk to her own mother. “Did you know about the affair? Did you suspect?”

  “No, I didn’t know and I didn’t suspect. I know your mother liked to flirt with the men in town to be noticed and have some fun. No disrespect, but Mitch isn’t exactly a live wire and, in any marriage, you need a little fire once in a while. But she never told me until this afternoon about Bill Sweeney.” Lucy paused for a moment. “Everybody has secrets, Serena.”

  The rumor around DC was that Congressman Winthrop had an unusually close relationship with his chief of staff, Tom Whiteside, the one who had gotten divorced, whom Lucy described as “quite a catch.” Serena had always assumed it was pure speculation, but maybe it wasn’t. Lucy continued, “Your mother is more complex than people give her credit for. Let’s face it, every mother is more complex than society gives her credit for.”

  Serena breathed deeply. She was relieved. Lucy might be the perfect confidant after all. “I’m so angry at her for not telling me when I could have had the chance to sit with him and talk to him. I didn’t have that chance.”

  “That’s true. He had his demons, but he also had his gifts.”

  “I’m so angry that she hid this from me, I can’t get past that to even talk to her, ask her the most basic questions. And I don’t know how to be angry like this. It’s not in my DNA.”

  “Or so you thought! Maybe you should get your Irish up.”

  The women laughed. They sat in silence for a bit, finishing their iced teas, side by side. Then Lucy said, “Your mother desperately wants to talk to you. She’s ready now. It’s why she called me, so that I could talk to you. Your mother is willing to answer your questions.”

  “I get it. And I’m getting there. It’s funny, the one question the Sweeneys want answered is how did this happen. How did my normal mother lure their famous father away from ethereal Maeve Sweeney? They want the details that I don’t.”

  Lucy let out a laugh. “That is funny. It says to me those girls let go of assuming the best about their father a long time ago. That’s the luxury that men have. They can be awful and beloved. Women don’t get that kind of leeway. Plus, your mother isn’t normal. She’s sharp. She needed a career. That would have helped her immensely, given her a place for her intellectual gifts. But, she went the motherhood route.”

  “And I think we can both agree, motherhood didn’t highlight her skill set.”

  Lucy nodded. “Probably true. Though she is an awfully good tennis player. And a bridge whiz. I think it’s time for a cocktail, don’t you? I’ll text Sadie and she’ll bring
out something.” The Winthrops had a house full of staff for all kinds of tasks, but everything went through Sadie, an Irishwoman who’d been with them for years. Within minutes, a tray with gin and tonics arrived with a small silver bowl of nuts. “So, let’s talk about the sisters. What do the Sweeney girls think of you? And what do you think of them?”

  Serena got emotional, much to her surprise. She hadn’t had to articulate her feelings to anyone, so she hadn’t realized how Liza, Maggie, and Tricia had gotten under her skin. “I have to say, they have something. Individually and as a unit.” Serena thought about the moment in the conservatory, when Liza faltered and Maggie went to her immediately, without a word. “It’s a connection to each other like I’ve never seen.”

  “Some sisters have that. I wish my girls had a stronger connection, but they had too good an upbringing. They didn’t go through what the Sweeney girls did—their poor mother. She was no match for her husband. His career swallowed her whole and then the cancer finished her off. I always thought it was strange that Bill Sweeney was a mess after her death. He seemed like a one-man band when she was alive, but I guess not. Were you aware of that?”

  “Yeah, I read the book.”

  “Of course you did. How did they react to you?”

  “True to form, I’m guessing. Liza was warm. Maggie was truly welcoming. And Tricia was and is cautious around me. We are strangers, really, just getting to know each other.”

  “And is that what you want, to be the fourth Sweeney sister?”

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  “I heard Whit Jones moved out.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what I heard from Janey Masters. She heard it from her daughter-in-law who went to Georgetown with Whit and ran into him at the airport in some city in North Carolina. Durham? I think that’s it. Well, she said Whit told her he was relocating there permanently, but his family wasn’t moving down because he and his wife were splitting.”

  “Poor Liza. Obviously, no one’s told me anything that personal.”

  “Well, from what I hear, there’s a lot brewing in that family in terms of finances and such. I mean, your family,” Lucy said, suddenly delighted by the idea. “It’s really something to get a whole new family halfway through your life. You are writing something, aren’t you? Please tell me this is going to be a Vanity Fair blockbuster piece with all the salacious details.”

  Serena filed the information about the Sweeney family financial difficulties away for further research, responding, “Lucy! I thought you were my mother’s friend!”

  “I am. But, let’s face it, this is a pretty sexy story. Bill Sweeney and the mom next door. It has it all: literary genius, family secrets, broken hearts. You owe this to the world.”

  “What about my father? What do I owe him? I think about that.”

  “I think for the answer to that question, you should talk to a therapist, a lawyer, and Mitch Tucker, in that order.”

  “Oh, I’ve been to a therapist. And lurked in online groups for NPEs. That’s what we’re called, Not Parent Expected, a bastardization of a genealogy term. It means people who didn’t quite get the DNA results they thought they were going to get. We’re a growing cohort. I’m not sure it’s my cohort.”

  “All I know is that I’ve reached an age where I wish I had my own story to tell.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you. I’m pretty sure you have your own vault of sexy secrets under lock and key.” The older woman shrugged innocently, drink to lips. “Wait, broken hearts? Whose broken heart?”

  “That is your mother’s tale to tell. You should call her, Serena.”

  The two women looked out across Long Island Sound to the pink sky. The paddleboarders and sea kayakers were headed back to shore as the light faded. Serena finished her drink, imagining the stories that hadn’t been told all up and down the Gold Coast.

  Chapter 16

  It was late, but Liza hadn’t wanted to go home, so she stopped at the gallery to catch up on paperwork and write up her master to-do list for the next week. A part of her wanted to cancel the whole show. She had overheard Maggie tell Tricia, “Sunflowers is a lame concept, designed to please the lowest common denominator of art buyers who would be wandering through the gallery over the summer season.”

  Maybe Maggie was right. But a few months ago, Liza had walked into the studio of one of her most reliable artists and a dear old friend, Kat Ryan, a true local whose mother, Cordelia, had also been a beloved painter and art advocate in the area. (Both had educated and inspired Liza to start her gallery; there was no value Liza could put on their friendship and support.) Kat’s new work blew Liza away. Kat had spent the previous fall in Provence and had committed her recent work to pay tribute to van Gogh. When Liza saw her glorious oils of fields of sunflowers saturated in Provencal light and colors, she said, “We could make a fortune on these. How many will you have by July?”

  “Six big ones and a dozen guest-bathroom sizes.” The old friends laughed.

  Cha-ching. They committed to the show right there. The summer crowds liked beautiful. They liked pleasing. And Kat’s sunflowers were both, but with enough technique and depth to attract more sophisticated collectors who needed something for their new sunrooms or she-sheds. With a few other artists on board using sunflowers as a literal or metaphoric theme, the show was shaping up to be the biggest and potentially the most lucrative in Sweeney Jones history. Still, Liza wished it would all go away.

  Truth was, she did need Serena if she was going to pull this off. She hadn’t realized how behind she’d let things get while looking for the memoir. She sent a quick text, asking Serena to report for public relations duty in the morning.

  There was a knock on the gallery door. Liza, startled, looked up from her computer screen. Bear, sitting at her feet, barked at the man in the window. It was Gray. He waved at her and motioned to her to unlock the door. She did as he asked, unlocked the door and then turned her back on him, returning to her desk. She needed some sort of physical barrier between herself and this man, her present and her past.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” Gray called out to her back.

  “Surprised more than scared.”

  “I was driving home and saw you through the window,” Gray said as if that was enough of a reason to interrupt her life after fifteen years. He held out a beautiful wooden bowl, clearly hand-turned and high quality. Was it black walnut? Liza wasn’t sure, but it reminded her of the coveted Andrew Pearce bowls from Vermont. “I wanted to show you this.”

  She took her place behind the desk. “A big bowl. Did you make this?”

  “I did. I do woodworking now and someone suggested that you might be interested in carrying these in the gallery.” Gray’s blue eyes had not dimmed one bit in all these years. If anything, they were brighter, deeper. Liza forced herself to be unreceptive. Of course Gray has such extreme self-confidence that he walks into my gallery after more than a decade of no contact to try to get me to rep his fucking bowls. “I don’t sell housewares,” she said flatly, knowing she could probably sell ten a week, easy.

  Silence. “I’m sorry, Liza.”

  “About which part, Gray? Abandoning me? Never reaching out to me? My dad? Showing up here with your salad bowl after fifteen years and expecting me to go into business with you?”

  “All of that. And a lot more. I feel like you are one of the people in my life that I hurt the most and one of the people that will be on my apology list for life.”

  “I’m good, Gray. I’m not that twenty-one-year-old girl anymore. You don’t need to keep me on any list.” Liza turned her back on him, pretending to file some papers. She didn’t want to hold eye contact. It was too hard.

  “I am very sorry about your father.”

  She turned back to face him. “He never liked you.”

  “That was clear. And I don’t blame him. I was a colossal asshole who treated his daughter like crap. But I know he liked you. And you liked him, so I’m sorry
for your loss.”

  “Is that why you showed up uninvited to the wake? Did you think I’d be so overcome with emotion that I’d welcome you back like a long-lost friend?”

  “I’ve been back in town for a few months, hoping every day to run into you. But never did. I heard about the wake from some guys in town and wanted to see you. That’s all. It was clear that you didn’t feel the same.”

  “Apparently, hostility is a sign of grief. Did you know that? The funeral home sent us a handy-dandy pamphlet today on what we can expect over the next year—exhaustion, sleeplessness, headaches, anxiety, anger, and hostility. It’s a winner list. That’s what I felt when I looked up and saw you at the wake: hostility.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you? Do you really? I was in love with you, Gray. My mother was dying. I had to drop out of college to care for her. And still, I covered for you in every possible way, with your parents, the law, everyone I knew who said you were trouble. I did crazy things for you. And you got on your motorcycle one day and left. And I never heard from you again.”

  “I heard you married Whit.”

  “I married Whit to get over you.” Those were words Liza had never said aloud. She was tired. She shouldn’t be having this conversation.

  Gray looked genuinely remorseful. “I didn’t know that. I was so into myself, my addiction, I barely registered anyone else. That was wrong.”

  Liza softened. “Maggie told me that you’re sober and healthy and restoring your parents’ house. I’m happy for you, Gray, in the sense that I’m happy for anyone who can take back control of their own lives. Please know that. But I’ve moved on in so many ways since you left Southport. I know that sounds stupid because I live three blocks from the house I grew up in. But, believe me, I have moved on.”

  “Liza, I understand. I’m not expecting you to welcome me back into your life, like nothing’s happened. Honestly, I wanted to say I’m sorry. And I thought you might like the bowls.”