Serena hadn’t seen them in years, since she’d graduated from college and left Southport. Watching them dance together at the wake to an ancient Boz Scaggs song, laughing and playing off each other, Serena could remember

them as teenagers walking down the lane on their way home from the pharmacy in the village or sailing lessons at the yacht club. You could hear them first, either singing the Spice Girls at the top of their lungs or Liza screaming at Maggie about something she did or didn’t do and Tricia pleading with them to stop fighting. Serena would look up from the big chair on the porch where she’d be reading the paper. The Sweeney girls always walked right in the middle of the road, oblivious to the few cars that might turn down their dead-end street. The cars can wait for us, their attitude seemed to say. To Serena, an only child who stuck to the sidewalk, the confidence of the younger girls was striking.

But it wasn’t admirable to Serena’s mother, who had no patience for the carefree Sweeneys. She would beep at them in her car and shoo them over to the sidewalk, remarking to her own daughter, “Those Sweeneys, they seem to think the moon and the stars revolve around them.”

It’s true. They did.

Serena would have expected them to have changed so much more, in their thirties having lost both their parents, to have taken up this heavy burden and wear the pain on their faces. But instead, she found herself amazed by their lightness, their collective energy. (Another reason the whiskey and the dancing had seemed like a good idea. Who could compete with these sisters?)

Liza, with her deep auburn hair and pale complexion, was petite and had matured into the classic preppy style she’d always worn. Serena had envied Liza growing up, pulling off dark blue jeans, her French striped sweaters and vintage Pappagallo espadrilles. At the wake, she was in a simple black dress, three strands of pearls, and flats for the lawn and she looked perfect.

Serena was surprised to hear that she had married Whit Jones, a dull but solid guy, who predictably became his father, complete with golf tan and a receding hairline. Liza had always been surrounded by much cuter boys at regattas or cotillions. And then there was the rumor that she’d been involved with Gray Cunningham, town bad boy and the first person she’d ever known to sell prescription meds. (It must be true because Gray was here tonight and he looked fantastic, like Jake Gyllenhaal on a good night.) And yet, Liza had married Whit, raised twins, and lived in the big Victorian nearby with the decorative wreath on the front door, like a proper Southport girl. There must be something more to that story, Serena thought.

Then there was Maggie, wild Maggie, “Mad Maggie” she had heard Bill Sweeney call her once at a neighborhood Christmas party. Maggie looked so much like their mother, it was uncanny. She hadn’t changed a bit with her strawberry-blond hair, tan shoulders, and wrists filled with silver bangles. She still turned heads. Serena remembered being at the market when a seventeen-year-old Maggie Sweeney had swept in to buy a Diet Coke and all the men in the store watched her in her short sundress, floppy hat, and scrunchy suede boots as she sauntered out. Serena stood at the register, mid-transaction, waiting for the clerk to recall that she was there at all. She was something then and she was something now. Taller than Liza and curvier, she looked like she’d stepped out of an Anthropologie catalogue in her black maxi dress dotted with white stars and a pink-and-orange scarf in her hair. Who has the guts to wear that to a funeral? she thought.

Finally, Tricia, who surprised Serena most of all, probably because she had been in braces the last time she had seen her. Now she was tall and athletic looking, like she could run a million miles before needing a drink of water. It made sense. Serena recalled that little Tricia was always running or jumping. The Sweeneys had a giant trampoline in their backyard and while Serena was upstairs in her bedroom grinding away on her homework, she could see preteen Tricia jumping up and down all afternoon. Now she was a grown woman with straight red hair in a chin-length bob, wearing an expensive sheath dress and simple diamond earrings. There was no wedding ring on her finger, so Serena guessed she had bought the diamonds herself.

She knew Tricia was a lawyer and she had acted the part of family spokesperson for the last few days, speaking to the press, doing interviews laced with funny and charming stories while reminding everyone of her father’s tremendous legacy.

During the wake, Serena had watched Tricia circulate through the guests like a politician, a species with which Serena was familiar, shaking hands warmly with her father’s colleagues or hugging the neighbors and close friends, maintaining eye contact with everyone she encountered, working her way through all the mourners turned revelers. Tricia had a job to do and she was thorough. Serena had fled to the ladies’ room inside the house when Tricia was making a beeline for the group from Yale that Serena had attached herself to. There was no way she could talk to Tricia or any of the sisters.

What had she been thinking? She was Serena Tucker, former neighbor and never really a friend to the Sweeneys. When the New York Times alert flashed across Serena’s phone screen, she had felt compelled to return to Southport, to be a part of saying goodbye to the man she barely knew, except from his writing. She imagined there would be some gathering at the library or the yacht club she could attend. When Lucy Winthrop told her about the invite-only celebration at Willow Lane, she thought, I have a right to mourn, to be there.

Serena hopped aboard the Acela at Union Station in DC. She had stared out the window thinking of nothing, a rare occurrence for her busy mind, as the train made its way through Baltimore, Delaware, Philly, Newark, Penn Station, and, finally, Stamford. She rented a car at the station and drove the scenic route to Southport.

But now that she was back, she thought of what her mother Birdie had said about “those Sweeneys” and the moon and the stars. This was their universe and Serena had no business at Willow Lane.

As the bartender put down her chowder, her phone buzzed. It was a text from Cap Richardson. The sisters would like to meet. Please call me in the morning to set up a time.

“Anything else?” the bartender interrupted Serena’s thoughts.

“You know what? I think I will have a glass of wine. Do you have a good red?”

Chapter 8

Liza, Maggie, and Tricia sat around the mahogany conference table in the law offices of Richardson & Blix waiting for last-minute instructions and gathering their courage. Serena would be walking through the door any minute and, despite their differences in careers, marital status, and degree to which they were concerned about this woman’s motives, the sisters were united on one issue: Do Not Blurt Out Any Family Secrets.

Cap kept referring to the event as a “Meet and Greet,” as if Serena were a potential new client and the Sweeneys were offering their services in closet organizing or home decorating. “This is the first step. You don’t have to make any decisions or form any lifelong bonds today. Meet her and then decide for yourselves about how you’d like to proceed. But understand that she has legal rights here. You will have to deal with her in the future. I suggest that you be polite and positive. Don’t antagonize her . . .”

“Tricia, did you hear what Cap said? No antagonizing!” Maggie said.

“I’m not the wild card here,” Tricia responded, implying it was Maggie’s personality, not Tricia’s, that was the most unpredictable.

“Let Cap finish,” Liza said.

Cap was firm, but spoke more softly when he cautioned the sisters,

“Whatever anger or disappointment you might feel toward your father, try to put that aside when you speak to Serena. I know you have memories of her from years ago, when you thought of her only as a neighbor. But she is a formidable person as an adult. And now, she is a relative, so bear that in mind.”

Tricia knew she could keep a lid on the situation, but was worried about Liza, who got emotional and defensive about her father and her mother, and

Maggie, who, when agitated, lashed out at the agitator. Tricia wanted the meeting to feel more like a deposition than a cozy family reunion. “The key is to get Serena to talk about Serena. Ask her questions about her life, her work. Be curious about her, so she won’t ask too many about us. Or Dad. I can do all the talking, if you want.”