by Lian Dolan
“That would be great. I would love to have you here more. Is this permanent? Or weekends only?”
“Weekends after Labor Day. I mean, I have to go back to work at some point. But, you know, it’s a good halfway spot between Manhattan and New Haven.” Tricia looked at Maggie, who was squealing like a tenth grader. “Do not make those noises.”
“It would be great for me and the twins,” Liza said. “Plus, that might leave me some money to do a little renovation, not much! Update the bathrooms, paint. I’m not spending one dime in the kitchen.” Tricia and Maggie didn’t buy that last line at all.
“Okay, well, I’m going to take the money,” Maggie announced to no one’s surprise. “As long as I can still use a guest room.”
The sisters discussed the necessary steps—an appraisal, determining the debt load, assessing equity, buying out Maggie’s interest—which prompted Maggie to add, “I don’t know what any of those words mean. All I ask is that you don’t swindle me.”
“Hello, all.” It was Serena, pushing through the screen door. She was in a short dress and sandals, her long legs tanned. Her movements were comfortable, confident, a world away from her body language at the first meeting in Cap’s office. She had a bottle of wine in her hands and she’d grabbed four glasses from the bar area. “How’s everybody?”
“Were you hiding in the kitchen or something? How did you get here so fast?”
“I was waiting in my car for Tricia’s text. It’s a quick drive over.”
Liza looked between Tricia and Serena. “We’re going to have to watch you two.”
“Wait until you hear Serena’s news,” Tricia said, then turning to Serena, she teased, “And, we have a proposition for you.”
Serena twisted off the cap and poured the wine into the four glasses. Each sister took one and they raised their glasses to a toast. Maggie found the right words. “To us.”
Chapter 25
Thanksgiving
Four Months Later
Liza was up early, because she wanted to get a few tasks done before her guests arrived at Willow Lane. In years past, her goal would have been to accomplish nearly one hundred percent of the to-do list prior to the turkey coming out of the oven, so that her family could be both impressed and a little bit demoralized by her style and efficiency. This year, everything about Thanksgiving felt different. The setting, the food, the dress code, and the collection of faces around the table.
Thanksgiving 2.0 was what Liza had been calling it in her emails to guests, not nearly as detailed or demanding as in years past. This Thanksgiving is the start of new traditions, Liza thought, but it’s still Thanksgiving. I’m not letting the whole operation sink to paper napkins and takeout turkey from Whole Foods.
Vivi and Fitz were still asleep upstairs, or at least in their rooms under the covers, scrolling through social media on their phones. After Liza and Whit told the twins about the split, they took them to the Apple store so they could each get new phones. It was an emotionally cheap way to soften the blow that their parents were divorcing, but Liza had come to accept that a certain percentage of modern parenting was transactional. She felt like she’d done a pretty fine job with the nontransactional portion of the fallout. She had really been there for Vivi and Fitz in a way she wasn’t before. Not having a husband or a father to care for had freed up Liza’s time and her mind. Not that single parenthood was a picnic, but she thought back to Whit’s accusation about her nonstop worrying for fifteen years. She had expended enormous energy caring for other people and shaping other people’s perceptions. Since moving to Willow Lane, she limited her care to Vivi, Fitz, and herself. The “other people” in her life could manage themselves.
Now, there was more cooking in the house, more hanging out in the kitchen with the kids, more Monopoly after dinner, and less of the “resume-building” activities that had clogged their family schedule in the past. Signs of rebellion had popped up lately. Vivi announced she was a vegan, which Liza thought of as the most palatable form of self-harm, and Fitz made it clear that getting him a car at sixteen would go a long way toward making up for the divorce. Liza and Whit agreed. Fitz’s math grades had dipped and Vivi was making a half-effort in Spanish, but instead of rushing in with high-priced tutors, Liza left the extra help to the study center at school. One mother expressed concern that Liza’s kids weren’t attending PSAT prep class on Saturday mornings like the rest of the class, telling Liza, “Those tests don’t take themselves. I hope Vivi and Fitz don’t get shut out of the top-tier prep schools. Or colleges. No one wants to pay that money for second tier.”
Liza thought of Vivi and Fitz, who’d been schooled by their grandfather during those afternoon sails on how to read carefully and connect the dots between literature and life, how to tell a story with a beginning, middle, and punchline. Liza said, “I know my children will be fine, no matter where they end up.”
The house on Westway sold quickly in a bidding war. Her agent had priced the house well to attract multiple offers. The new owners, transplants from Southern California, even offered to buy the furniture and artwork, explaining, “All our mid-century modern furniture is wrong for this part of the world.” It made the move seamless and less sad somehow, like a new family would be stepping in to inhabit the house that Liza had worked so hard to make a home.
Liza positioned the move to Willow Lane as an adventure and Vivi, in particular, had loved picking out the paint colors for her new room, tagging along with her to buy a few fill-in furnishings, picking out cheap fun lamps for the dining room. Liza told Vivi all about Maeve’s “shabby and chic before Shabby Chic was chic” aesthetic and Vivi embraced the idea of the grandmother she’d never met. One day, when Lolly, who in fact had chosen Liza and the twins in the divorce over her own son with whom she was “tremendously disappointed,” came by to drop off apple butter and muffins, Liza heard Vivi tell her, “My grandmother Maeve had all these things called slipcovers. We’re getting some for our couches.”
Fitz was too busy growing to care about a lot more than his next meal. He’d hit his growth spurt, shooting up five inches over the summer, a sprint so fast he had stretch marks on his back. He was eating four to five meals a day and resisting showers, but Liza tried to give him space. He missed his father, for sure, and she knew repercussions might come along down the line, but for now, she tried Big Love over Big Worry. Her personal mantra had become “Stop Nagging.” She felt like the bulk of her conversation with her children for the last ten years was nagging about doing homework, getting to tutoring or dance class on time, and clearing their dishes. She wanted to get away from the all-nag, all-the-time lifestyle; at least, that’s what her therapist suggested. It killed her to keep quiet, but Liza was trying. So far, Vivi and Fitz were coping.
It helped that Julia Ruiz had returned to Willow Lane, working three days a week to keep the family on track and keep an eye on the twins while Liza was at the gallery. She had never really wanted to find another employment situation—too much effort to get to know a whole new household, a whole new set of “crazy white people,” as she told her own sons. She was happy to be back with the Sweeneys. Her presence was like a weighted blanket to Liza, calming and stress-reducing. Lolly had picked up Julia’s extra two days during the week, even though there was rarely a pillow out of place at her home. She felt like it was the least she could do to make up for her son’s behavior. For her part, Julia enjoyed spending quiet afternoons at Miss Lolly’s ironing sheets and napkins or running to Stop & Shop for skim milk.
Whit was flying back home two weekends a month. Before Liza and the kids moved to Willow Lane, he was staying in the guest room at the house on Westway, the two adults interacting with extreme accommodation, putting their best faces forward for family and friends. Liza wanted nothing more than a good divorce, but she knew normalized relations with Whit would have to wait until after the papers were signed, as they were still negotiating the custody agreement. She spent most of the weekends working at
the gallery while Whit shuttled the children to sports or dance or birthday parties. But when Liza and the kids moved to Willow Lane, a smaller house where Whit had never felt comfortable, he rented a modest condo nearby instead of occupying the guest room. The kids had no interest in ever sleeping at the condo, but it saved Whit from having to bunk in with his parents.
Liza finished setting the table in the dining room. Her one indulgence in the move to Willow Lane was a beautiful new extended dining room table in blackened oak that would seat twelve on the matching benches. She ran her hands along the smooth wood. She’d decorated it with a rustic flax-colored runner, replaced the polished silver of years past with everyday flatware, and the linen napkins were pumpkin, instead of traditional white. Lolly had dropped off several beautiful low arrangements of bittersweet in pewter vases and a bag of pressed and shellacked fall leaves for Liza to scatter on the table. The result pleased Liza.
She was about to set the place cards around the table when she stopped herself. Someone else could put the place cards around the table this year.
“Hello, we’re here.”
“You’re early.”
“Tim wanted to make sure the grill was all good to go and he had plenty of time to cook the turkey. You look gorgeous. What’s happening with your hair? I like it.” Maggie’s arms were full of pie and cider but she gave Liza a hug. She handed Fitz the pie, saying, “This is my first attempt at apple pie from scratch. I’m counting on you to like it, Fitz.”
“I will, Aunt Maggie. Can I have a piece now? I’m starving.”
Maggie looked to Liza. To her surprise, Liza okayed the pie. “Sure, but don’t eat the whole pie. Have some milk, too. That will hold you over.”
“Vivi, I made this for you. I’m taking a jewelry-making workshop at the Arts Collective in Mill River. The teacher is this super-talented designer who moved to town from Brooklyn. Is this rubbish? Or would you wear it?” She handed her niece, who was a Liza Mini-Me in her skinny jeans and navy-blue V-neck sweater, a silver wire cuff bracelet with tiny tourmaline beads. It was small enough to fit on Vivi’s slender wrists, but made a statement.
“I love it, Aunt Maggie. You could sell a million of these at my school art fair.”
“That’s because you have sophisticated friends who can afford semiprecious stones,” Maggie said, looking at Liza. “So, she’s staying at the fancy private school?”
“Probably, but no boarding school for either. Fitz wants outta there. He wants to go someplace with a, quote, real football team.”
“So, Jesuit.”
“If he gets in.”
“Fitzy! Vivi! Come here, Bear. Where’s Jack at?” Tim had taken to yelling upon arrival at Willow Lane. He’d become a favorite with the twins, somewhere between a cool older brother and the fun uncle. The dogs loved him. Even Liza had to admit to Maggie that Tim brightened every event, softening up some of the harsh edges of “right” and “proper” that had developed in the Sweeney family over the years. His commitment to grilling everything had expanded their holiday menu planning. This year, the bird was going on the grill. “Happy Thanksgiving, Liza.” He gave her a quick hug and dropped a case of beer in the bar area. “I’ll put that on ice in a bit. Okay, you guys, I need help unloading the truck and getting the grill going. Who’s with me?” The twins, who on a normal day complained about pouring milk in their cereal, leapt up to help Tim.
Maggie waited for them to leave. “So, I saw the new table arrived in time for Thanksgiving. Was it a special delivery?”
“Stop it.”
“Gray did a beautiful job.”
“He did.”
“And?”
“It’s too soon for anything serious. And this town is too small.”
“Still, you have seen him, right?”
“A couple of times.”
“Am I correct in assuming that now you’ll deign to sell housewares in your gallery?”
“Did he tell you about that?”
“Oh yeah.” Maggie was enjoying the memory.
“Let’s not relive your relationship with . . .” Liza paused, not sure how to describe the role Gray was playing in her life now. Once the summer ended and the kids were back in school, Liza found that her mind wandered to Gray every spare second. She wondered if it was because she was overwhelmed at the thought of starting over with someone new and he was close and familiar. But after running into him at the movies one night and going for coffee afterward, she knew it wasn’t lack of imagination on her part that made Gray so attractive. It was him. He was full of energy: intellectual, physical, emotional. He could be there for her on every level now if that’s what she wanted. She felt like she regained years of her life every time he wandered into the gallery at the end of the day or opened the door for her at his house. She felt adventurous, thrilled. “Let’s call him Gray for now.”
“Not your boyfriend?”
“In five years, when the twins will go to college, I can date. Whatever that means, in this day and age. But until then, I’d like to keep everything very low-key.” Liza was holding Whit to a similar standard. She didn’t want Savannah, his “work colleague,” to start showing up when Whit had the kids over for vacation, heading off to the master bedroom at the end of the day. Liza thought that would be unpleasant for teenagers and she had to stick to the same standard herself. As her lawyer Michelle had insisted during negotiations, “No overnight guests in the mix until the twins are eighteen.” While Whit seemed fine with that constraint, Liza was pretty sure Savannah, who looked to be about thirty-two from her LinkedIn profile, might not be so thrilled to wait as her biological clock ticked away.
“Five years! Why would you waste what you have left of your thirties?”
Liza thought about last Saturday night with Gray at his house. The twins were both at sleepovers, so she and Gray had twelve hours to themselves. She thought back to the attention he paid to every part of her body. I am not wasting my thirties, Liza thought. But, she knew part of the physical excitement came from the fact that their relationship was not for public consumption. The secrecy was intoxicating. “You’re not getting any more details out of me.”
“Is he coming today?”
“No, no. It will be a long while before we go public. If ever.” Liza and Maggie made their way toward the kitchen. “Don’t you think it’s going to be weird enough today?”
“It’s going to be smashing. We’re creating the new normal. We’re breaking the constructs of modern society and creating our own infrastructure of love and family,” Maggie said, her voice layered with cynicism.
“I hope you’re right—that our sociology experiment pays off.”
“We have nothing to lose,” Maggie declared, even though Tricia had warned them all that they definitely did have something to lose if this rollout didn’t create the buzz they expected. “Oh, I brought the two commissions with me and the four ‘guest bathroom’ oils you wanted.”
“Four! Ambitious. Those will sell this weekend. Seriously. I think of them as Southport Stocking Stuffers. Perfect Christmas gifts. You’ve been busy, Mags.”
“And I brought some of the sketches I’ve been working on for the poetry project. You can take a look at them after dinner.”
Maggie and Liza had hatched a plan to publish their mother’s found poetry in a limited-edition book along with paintings created by Maggie. The poems were rooted in domestic life with references to simple objects like coffee cups and blow-dryers and plenty of commentary on mothers, sisters, and daughters. But the language was vivid, filled with imagery of color and natural elements like water and earth. Maggie was inspired. Liza was excited to oversee the project along with a high-end art press. It would be called Willow Lane. There would also be a less expensive version printed so that Maeve Sweeney’s poems would be available to all. The proceeds would go to fund poetry workshops at local schools and a poet-in-residence program at the library.
Maggie wasn’t too keen on the charity aspect at first, bu
t Liza convinced her by explaining how the value of her original artwork would increase due to the book. Liza finished the guilt trip by adding, “It’s what Mom would have wanted.” Maggie agreed, even though charity was her least favorite activity.
Liza, checking her watch, started to move around the kitchen with purpose. Liza could only feign easy-breezy for so long. She had work to do. There would be time later to dive into Maggie’s art. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve brought. It’s great to see you so happy and productive.”
The sisters began to organize the kitchen in synchronicity. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but life has been good. I’m happy there in Mill River. I admit, I had a bad attitude in the beginning. But after being here this summer, as great as it was to spend so much time together, I needed someplace with less history, more possibility. And Tim and his brothers think they’ll have the brewpub open by New Year’s Eve. It’s all coming together.”
Tim’s grandmother, the sausage queen of Western Connecticut and Southern Massachusetts, had died twenty years ago and created a trust fund for the four Yablonski brothers—now a banker, a lawyer, a contractor, and a cook/beer enthusiast. After two decades, the brothers gained access to the money and promptly bought an old grain storage facility in a historic district with all kinds of development incentives. Mill River Brewing Company was born, with Tim and older brother Teddy the contractor running the day-to-day operations. Tim was naming the IPA after Maggie. Mad Maggie IPA. There would be Tim’s Taco Tuesday, of course. Liza commented when she heard the news, “I didn’t know people named Yablonski had trust funds.”
