by Lian Dolan
Liza had literally spent the week in bed after her breakdown at the gallery. She’d sent all who witnessed her collapse a dozen texts, explaining her exhaustion, thanking them for their support. The group texted back dozens of kissy face emojis in a show of solidarity. Individually, they reached out with more personal notes. Kat Ryan dropped by several times to talk and bring gazpacho from her garden tomatoes. Connor the architect returned to the city for the workweek, but David the shoe designer stayed in Southport and played the role of support staff, cooking, fetching tea, and watching Netflix while Liza physically recovered her strength. “Sweet Home Alabama is healing,” David insisted, as he fixed Liza a plate of scones and berries.
The pamphlet from the funeral home had mentioned that exhaustion was a side effect of grief, but Liza had no idea it would be this overwhelming, the kind of tired she experienced when she was pregnant with the twins. Like can’t-keep-your-eyes-open tired. She was grateful that Emily and Jenny from the gallery could handle the follow-up to the opening like pros. I’ll give them a bonus at the end of the summer, Liza thought.
The word about Liza and Whit had started to trickle out and the texts came pinging in. Her old Southport friends, the mothers from school and sports, even her hairdresser voiced support and offered help. Liza felt like she’d been in a blackout for the last six weeks since her father’s death and the supportive messages reminded her that she was, in Lucy Winthrop’s words, “an asset to the community.” Liza knew the next year would be one of tremendous transition. For her, for the twins, for the relationships in her life that were Whit-dependent, like with her mother-in-law. Soon, her sisters would be gone, returned to their daily lives in different cities and towns, the contact reduced to texts and calls and the occasional weekend visit. Even Serena would return to DC and resume her career. When the summer ended, it would be this circle of support that she had cultivated over the years outside of her family that would get her up and get her going.
She returned every supportive text with a message that ended: I appreciate your discretion in this situation. The twins are still at camp for a few weeks. We’d like to tell them in person and not have them find out via stray conversation. Thank you.
If Liza had bottomed out last Saturday, she was feeling stronger by the following Friday. She called her mother-in-law to let her know that she’d be coming by next week to install the new painting that they’d bought at the opening. Lolly suggested she stay for lunch afterward so they could, as Lolly put it, “have a good talk about the future.” Liza agreed. The two women were in sync. Then, Liza put in a call to Whit that she needed to talk to him as soon as possible.
Then her phone pinged again. It was Tricia and she was calling a family meeting. She needed to talk to her sisters.
The three Sweeney sisters sat on the patio looking out over the lawn, past the boathouse and the dock to the water. It was the first time since the death of their father that they wrestled with a long list of action items. For the most part, they’d completed what they needed to do: plan the wake, find the memoir, empty the house, and hold it together at all costs. The original list hadn’t even included “deal with Serena,” but they felt like, individually and collectively, they had done that, too. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t more to discuss. Tricia brought legal pads for all; hers was filled with notes. She distributed the pens to her sisters.
Liza and Maggie waited for Tricia to talk. It was her meeting, after all. The sisters understood their individual strengths and weaknesses and this seemed like a Tricia moment, as it pertained to legalities. Had it been about holiday planning or home renovation, that would have been Liza’s. Maggie had never called a meeting but she was good at snacks and beverages. There was a basket of pretzels on the table and a fresh pitcher of iced tea provided by Maggie.
“I wanted to give you all a couple of updates and then get your thoughts on a few options in terms of the estate. Please feel free to ask questions at any time,” said Tricia as she straightened her legal pad and pen to her standards.
Maggie and Liza knew better. In a million years, they would never interrupt Tricia when she was on a roll. She was not a believer in the adage “There are no bad questions.” She absolutely believed there were bad questions. They knew to tread lightly. “I’ll write mine down for later,” Maggie said.
“Fine, here we go. In terms of Snap, I have read it in its entirety. It’s well done. Dad told Cap that he had let it all hang out, and while that’s not exactly true, he lets a lot of it hang out. Not only will it sell, there are sections of the book that will be excerpted and debated, everywhere from Reddit to Vanity Fair to academic journals.
“In terms of our portrayal, the material is difficult. Our father had some issues with being a father and the three of us get a pretty rough edit in the last chapter of the book. Serena gets a mention, but is not named. You don’t have to read it, but you should be aware that it may have a ripple effect on your lives when the book comes out. More on that later. Cap and I turned the manuscript over to the publisher. We did a few minor edits that we felt were warranted, but other than that, this is the book our father wrote.”
“Thank you, Tricia,” Maggie said quickly, preempting Liza from asking about what was in the edited passages. “I’m sure your judgment was impeccable.” Maggie would have skipped over the edits altogether, had she been in her sister’s place, but not Tricia. She couldn’t quite bring herself to outright lie.
“Are you ready to move on?” Liza and Maggie nodded. “We fired Lois.”
“Yes! Farewell, Sad Hat Lady!” Maggie cheered.
“We terminated Lois’s agreement, but first, we had to threaten a lawsuit. Turns out, Sad Hat Lady been skimming a substantial percentage of Dad’s royalties over the last five years. Instead of her fifteen percent, she was taking more than thirty percent. It’s why the revenue had dropped sharply. She caved immediately when we brought her the evidence we had collected. She’s on a payment plan to reimburse us the money, but I don’t know if that will ever happen. Apparently, Maggie, she did have a secret life. As a terrible agent. Dad was one of her few clients left and she needed to milk him for all she could to pay for the apartment and the country house and the plastic surgery.”
“That’s awful, but I knew it! See, sixth sense. So how much are we talking about? I mean, not to be greedy, but what can we expect?”
“Split three ways minus taxes, legal fees, and Frannie’s cut, I would say enough to pay an annual mortgage on a modest house in lesser Litchfield County, if you wanted to consider buying a place near Mill River. At least for the next five years or so until they change the curriculums of high school and college-level literature classes.”
“Oh my God. I could get a place with a yoga studio.”
“Tricia said a modest house, Mags,” Liza reminded her.
“Cap and I will handle anything that needs to be handled from here on out. Cap will be the literary executor making decisions about the IP and any future deals with regards to Dad’s work. I’ll assist him on the legal side. It’s a cozy relationship, but you know we have Dad’s best interests at heart. Any questions on that?”
Liza and Maggie shook their heads. Both were relieved that Tricia was so on top of matters like this. Liza couldn’t possibly manage one more legal strategy and Maggie wouldn’t even know where to start.
“To that end, I’ve been doing a little lawyering this week in my free time. I called a classmate from law school, Chip Darnell, who’s an agent now at a boutique firm in LA, and had a long talk about possible interest in terms of film and TV rights. He assured me there would be some from producers and actors and to strike while the iron was hot.”
“Is that a euphemism for ‘famous author recently dead?’” Maggie asked.
“Yes, you could say that. Upon my request, Chip called around to various production companies about the memoir and, really, any other property that belongs to William Sweeney, from articles to Bitter Fruit. Nothing is set yet, bu
t the response was good. You know how Dad always swore he would never ‘go Hollywood,’ but Cap said he’d had a change of heart recently. He’d asked Cap to look around for somebody to make his life story.”
“Was Cap telling the truth or paving the way for us so we didn’t feel guilty?” Liza knew what was up.
“A little of both. A caveat—there aren’t zillions to be made in this, but something. And the works get to live and breathe again. Plus, it’s Leo who’s interested in the memoir.”
“Leonardo DiCaprio? As our dad?” Maggie was ecstatic.
“Maybe as an actor, but definitely as a producer. He has an advanced copy now.”
Liza was more skeptical. “I’m fine with most of this, but I don’t ever want to see My Maeve as a six-episode series starring Jessica Chastain as Mom, even though I love Jessica Chastain. That whole book was Dad writing his way out of the guilt he was feeling over the way he treated Mom with a glamorized version of his spousal devotion. I couldn’t stand to see that myth portrayed on screen. Not now.”
“Fair enough,” Tricia said, jotting down notes on her legal pad.
“If we get stipulations, I stipulate that Darren never gets to direct anything associated with Dad. I couldn’t stand that, either. Imagine him on the press tour talking about our relationship. It would be a nightmare.” Liza and Tricia were both pretty sure that Maggie would actually enjoy the drama of her former boyfriend talking about her to the national press, but they said nothing.
“So noted.”
“How did you do all this?”
“Cap. People have been calling Cap for years with offers, queries about the rights. He kept a list for when, he said, the time was right. Now is that time. Allegory said the memoir may be as soon as December. They’re going to crash the book.” The sisters knew enough about publishing to know that “crash” meant to rush the process for the soonest publication date. My Maeve had been a crash. “So, my question is, are you comfortable with me moving on these sorts of revenue streams? Any objections, other than the ones you’ve stated? And speak frankly, we don’t want this to be an issue going forward, and we all have an equal stake in this.”
“How bad is the book? I mean, about us?” Liza asked.
“Yeah. CliffsNotes version,” Maggie added.
“It’s one bad paragraph.”
“Go on . . .”
“In a nutshell,” Tricia started, then hesitated. “. . . I’m a frigid control freak. Maggie, you’re an undisciplined dilettante, and Liza, you were a hussy but now you’re too uptight to party.”
And the moment Tricia said the words out loud, the sisters started howling. It was like a spell was broken. Then Maggie said, “As if we didn’t know that! Nailed it!”
“Did he say anything nice about us?”
“He thought we all had really good hair. He wheeled out that St. Patrick’s Day Parade story and made it all about himself, of course. He had disappointed himself by getting swept up in the buoyant atmosphere of New York. I think that’s the word he used, buoyant, instead of public drunkenness run amok. And he claimed if he had dragged us down Madison Avenue to Grand Central instead of Mom that we would have made it in good spirits. It would have been the adventure of a lifetime and he deprived us of that to satisfy his own thirsts—that was the word he used to describe his desires. That kind of bullshit. But he did mention how our hair shone in the harsh spring sunlight.”
“Ironically, we got our hair from Mom,” Maggie said.
“Given that we will have to live with the consequences of the book, I say we sell out. Do we get to fly to the coast and meet with Leo?” Liza asked.
“Please don’t talk like that,” Maggie advised. Her five years in Los Angeles might actually prove to be useful. “You know who I’d be interested in meeting with? Any member of the Buffy cast.”
“Or Alexander Skarsgård.”
The sisters were slightly giddy. Tricia, true to form, brought the dose of reality. “I think we should be aware that these things can take time and we may only make significant money if something goes into production. Residual books sales would also benefit the estate. We’re seeing that already. Since Dad died, his sales have spiked. He would have liked that. But yes, we should totally meet with Alexander Skarsgård.”
“Do you think Dad would be mad at us?” Liza asked, still seeking to please.
“No. I don’t. I feel like it’s a trade-off for this memoir and a way for us to come to terms with a few legacy issues. And, if we’re involved in some way, we can use our judgment on who would best serve the material and we can always bail. Change our minds. I think that Dad’s work may get pushed to the side unless we make him relevant again.”
“Listen to you, ‘best serve the material.’ Is that what your friend, the agent, said?” Maggie asked.
“Yes, I am quoting. Honestly, I think that’s why Dad wrote the memoir he did. It’s sexy, it’s honest, it’s new material, and it’s meant to be provocative. And then he specified that it not be released until after his death. He wanted to stay in the public eye even after he was gone. Movies, film, television—that’s one way to keep William Sweeney up front and center, where he liked to march. I think we’ll be honoring his wishes, in a weird way.”
“We trust you, Tricia,” Liza said. “Are you sure you want to take this on? I don’t know anything about these kinds of deals and I know the next year for me will be rough.”
“I’m more than willing to do it. I feel like it’s my duty.”
“I can help if you need me,” Maggie said. Tricia and Liza looked at each other, trying to hide their bemusement over what “help” from Maggie might look like in negotiating film rights. She caught them biting their tongues. “Again, I’m the only one who’s actually lived in Hollywood.”
“Thanks. That’s a good point, Maggie. If we need juice bar recommendations, you’re our first call.”
“Very funny. Hilarious,” Maggie said, not amused.
“Seriously, though, when it’s appropriate, I will go through all the options with both of you. I want you both to feel comfortable with the decisions we make. The worst thing in the world would be to get into one sister suing another. Let’s try to stay on the same page on this.”
“Could I sue you for money?” Maggie asked.
“No. For control. Which has no monetary value unless exercised correctly,” Tricia answered.
“Forget it, then.”
“Okay, there’s one more big agenda item,” Tricia said, then pulled out her phone to send a quick text. “Serena has some news she wants to share.”
“Oh, can I go first? I’ve been thinking about the real estate piece of all this,” Liza announced, surprising her sisters.
“Are you going to turn your house into a B and B so you can instruct different people every week on how to use the shower?” Maggie said while Tricia snorted.
“Stop it.”
“You deserve that.”
“I don’t want to sell Willow Lane. I want to sell my house and move into Willow Lane,” Liza said, confidently.
“Really?” Maggie and Tricia said at the same time. They were shocked. Liza’s house was perfect in every way, historic and updated, a showplace. “Are you sure?”
“I can’t stand to think about this place being torn down for some ginormous faux mansion with a screening room and heated toilet seats. I can’t let that happen. Not because of Dad, more because of Mom. She made this a happy place for us and now we know how difficult that task truly was. This place is special. Look around. I know you and Cap said we shouldn’t get emotional, that this is our prime asset. But I can’t let this go.”
“Now that we turned in the manuscript, some of the financial pressure is off us. It’s still a lot to take on, Liza. And I thought you loved your house on Westway?”
“I loved what that house represented. How much is that worth now? I spoke to Whit yesterday. With the permission of my attorney, so don’t freak out, Tricia. We’re starting to move
toward a dissolution of our marriage and dividing the assets. Whit admitted that he had no intention of coming back to Southport permanently, but he was too chickenshit to tell his own parents. So he told a few friends figuring it would leak out, and it did. The trial separation was a ruse to buy himself time. He was hoping his mother would find out by rumor. This was all about saving face with his mother, not about me and the kids. He was more concerned about his mother’s feelings than mine—which says it all, doesn’t it?”
“I didn’t think that of Whit,” Tricia said, shaking her head.
“Me, either. But his guilt may come in handy. My lawyer is ready to pounce to capitalize on that for the settlement in terms. Whit seemed relieved that I wanted to sell the big house. And, when I told him that I didn’t want the kids to go to prep school, that I wanted them to be closer to home in high school so they wouldn’t turn to self-medicating by abusing ADHD drugs or cutting to deal with the turmoil of their parents’ divorce, he agreed. Mr. St. Paul’s even said he would entertain the idea of the kids going to Fairfield High School. Public school!”
“Sounds like Whit wants to lower his expenses now that he’s on the hook for two households,” Tricia said, more cynical about the new populist Whit than Liza.
“I need to talk to Vivi and Fitz, of course. But I think they would love living here. It would be an adventure. And, I’m going to try to be more relaxed about everything. Maybe I’ll even let them eat on the couches in my presence. I don’t know how a deal would be structured, but I can buy you out of your shares, not both at once, but over time. And I’ll have to work something out with Serena, too. Maybe you can help me structure a deal, Trish.”
“That brings up some very interesting opportunities, for us and Serena. I’ll think that through. But you don’t have to buy me out of my share,” Tricia said. “I’ve been thinking about the boathouse, about how much I’d like a little place like that out here. And how impossible that would be to find—a small, cozy place on the water with a dock and beach access under a million dollars. I’ll stay in as co-owner, if I can have the boathouse. Does that sound reasonable?”
