To which Cap replied, “I think she feels the same way about you.”

On other days, when he worked alone from morning through late afternoon, Bill Sweeney, drink in hand, would rig up his Laser and take a sunset sail along the coastline toward Westport. Or he’d fish off the dock for blues that he’d throw back in the Sound. The boathouse was always the boathouse, never the office, because it was so much more than that.

Maeve created a comfortable haven in the main house where all felt welcome, all invited. Mostly all. She wasn’t a fan of the William Sweeney groupies, thin, well-educated young women dressed in the urban chic of black on black on navy blue, who would arrive as the plus-ones of a junior editor or a lesser writer but always seemed to have their eyes on Bill during the frequent parties in the early days of Willow Lane. But she was generous to her real friends, to her children, and to her children’s friends.

But Maeve struggled to create a writing life for herself. She wrote in flashes, as if she was storing up material in her mind’s eye until she had a few days of unscheduled time to get it all out. She would place a poem here or there in literary journals and even managed to publish a slim collection of poetry with a tiny press, but she was never sure if her work stood on its own merit or the reflected light of her husband’s reputation. The condescending tone used by Bill’s colleagues or editors when they asked about her writing chipped away at her confidence. At times, she was relieved to retreat back into motherhood and let Bill’s work shine.

The Southport neighbors loved that William Sweeney brought a touch of genuine literary celebrity to their little village filled with old money, card-carrying Daughters of the American Revolution, titans of business, publishing, and media, lawyers from white-shoe firms, and bankers who played by the rules and some who didn’t. But Maeve brought an unexpected touch of the suburban hippie with her long, curly red hair, flowing skirts, and poet’s sensibilities. She once heard one matron at a garden party fundraiser comment, “Someone got lost on the way home from Woodstock.” Maeve stopped going to garden party fundraisers.

She rode a Vespa around town in the summer, shared her homegrown tomatoes and blueberry muffins with the local firefighters in exchange for cutting rights of the magnificent hydrangeas they had cultivated outside the

firehouse, and created a haunted house for Halloween that made the long walk down the driveway worth every creepy step. And while other houses in Southport, fit for the National Register of Historic Places, were stiff and formal, filled with uncomfortable but period-appropriate Early American furniture, Willow Lane was more like a year-round beach house: nothing fancy, everything could be replaced. As Maeve used to explain to guests,

“Shabby and chic before Shabby Chic was chic.”

In her healthy years, Maeve wrote in her own studio, a glass-roofed conservatory that capped the far wing of the house. When the breast cancer metastasized and it was clear there would be no miracle cure, the conservatory became her sanctuary, filled with plants, music, and artwork, her chemo brain too addled for books.

Life wasn’t perfect on Willow Lane; no childhood ever is. There were rumors and some truth to the stories of their father’s drinking and gambling, and their mother’s illness hung over the family like a dark veil, but the Sweeney sisters couldn’t have imagined a better place to grow up. The water, the dock, the rolling lawn, the wraparound slate patio that served as everything from childhood playhouse to wedding dance floor when Liza married Whit. The giant trampoline that all the kids in the neighborhood used at will. The hedge of hydrangeas, the lilies of the valley tucked in along the stone wall.

For the sisters, Willow Lane would always evoke the echoes of their father’s laughter, their mother’s singing, the glamorous parties, and the raucous poker games. But sitting on the patio, Liza could also hear the fights in her head. The battles between the sisters over clothes or boys. The muffled fights between their parents over money or whatever else married couples argued over. Suddenly, as Liza sipped her wine, she had a thought.

“Do you think that’s what Mom and Dad were always fighting about—

Birdie Tucker?”

“I hope not,” Maggie answered. “I hope Mom never knew.”

Chapter 7

Serena Tucker was not a good dancer. She could play the flute, hit a decent forehand, and write a strong opening paragraph, but any trip out onto the dance floor required a substantial amount of alcohol. That was certainly the case tonight. She had arrived at William Sweeney’s wake filled with confidence and curiosity, determined to make a statement, but about halfway through the second eulogy, after hearing the laundry list of William Sweeney’s literary awards and achievements, the praise from other writers, her bravado crumbled. By the time the toasts started and Willem Dafoe offered her a shot of whiskey, she accepted gratefully, followed by another.

Then, the dancing seemed like a really solid idea, maybe the only way to get through the rest of the night, to try to blend into the wild mess instead of standing to the side observing, which was her usual habit.

Now, Serena sat at the bar at the Delamar Hotel, hoping a cranberry with seltzer would dissipate the remains of her hangover and the giant ball of stress in her gut ever since she’d arrived in Southport. The wake. The whiskey. Willem Dafoe. She was glad she made it back to the hotel, catching a ride with the mourners headed to the train station. She walked the half mile beyond the station to the hotel and promptly passed out in the four-poster bed. The luxury hotel was a splurge, an indulgence she allowed herself on occasion because that’s what trust funds were for, and the high-quality sheets and steam shower had been worth the extra money. She’d spent the morning in bed, popping ibuprofen and researching everybody from the night before to make sure no embarrassing photos of her had emerged on social media. They hadn’t. Apparently, no one wanted to share

their night memorializing with the general public. That’s what real friends are for, thought Serena.

After a long shower, Serena spent an hour reading all the social media tributes on #WilliamSweeney, everyone from the president, who had awarded him the Presidential Medal of Freedom, to noted writers and editors recalling their first encounter with Sweeney’s work, to college kids discovering him for the first time. She had to drag herself away from the computer to get lunch in the village—a turkey sandwich, oatmeal cookie, and a Diet Coke, her usual. After a walk down to the harbor and back, Serena’s head was clearer, her mind sharper. It was a strange sensation, walking through town now, past the houses of family friends—the Wyndhams, the Sills, the Vankirks—knowing that she’d grown up here with half an identity and was now whole. It mattered to her. Would it matter to anyone else?

She looked around the hotel bar for a familiar face, but Southport had changed some since her childhood. It wasn’t the type of people attracted to the town who had changed—traditional, well-educated, bound to both commuting into New York City but preferring life in the suburbs—but the actual people. Many of Serena’s parents’ generation had sold their big waterfront homes and moved to tasteful condos or warmer climates. As Serena peered around the bar, she thought, The faces are different, but the fashion’s the same. Long live the navy-blue blazer on both men and women.

She flagged down the bartender to order a bowl of chowder. That would put her back in business, she thought. But what business exactly?

Since discovering her connection to the Sweeney family six months ago, Serena had questioned about 98 percent of the decisions she’d made in her life, including the one to redeem the DNA testing gift certificate that she’d won at the office holiday party. That night was a high point for Straight Up.

The launch had gone well, the reviews were favorable, the money was flowing in a way that younger journalists weren’t accustomed to and seasoned journalists hadn’t experienced in a while. “It’s like the old days, when people actually read newspapers,” one veteran reporter had said, ironically toasting their good fortune to land at Straight Up, the next hot website, at the right time.

The journalists there were committed to speaking truth to power across the spectrum—from politics to business to sports to the creative arts. They were a smart, connected bunch with edge. The site had been funded by an