“You don’t need to do that. I can handle it,” Liza said, because she was required by The Law of the Oldest Sister to sacrifice herself at every opportunity. “I mean, I need to get back to work, too. But I’m used to multitasking.” Another Liza compulsion was to remind her sisters that she had a job, even though they had never diminished her work at the gallery. It was Liza who had a chip on her shoulder about what Whit called her

“jobby” and her lack of a college degree. “I love my studio manager, but she’s not up to the task of mounting the summer show. It’s called Still Life with Sunflowers. But there’s a period after ‘Still’ and a period after ‘Life’—

get it? We have about a dozen artists showing.”

Tricia held firm. “This is too much for you to do on your own. It’s not fair to dump this all on you, although I have no doubt you could do it all on your own. You’re completely capable, that’s not the issue. Like Serena, I haven’t had a break in fifteen years, either. I need one and now is the time.

I’m needed here more than I’m needed at the office on some class action suit that twenty-five lawyers are already working on. There’s some sort of family leave provision in my contract I can take advantage of, although no one ever does. But I can and I will. I could use a summer here in Southport, too.”

It was true. Tricia had been running, literally and figuratively, since the day their mother died. High school was a dead sprint of academic and athletic achievement, slowed only by bouts of grieving for her mother and caretaking of her father. College was the same, though the grief subsided and her father recovered. After graduating from law school and passing the bar, she barely took a full weekend off, never mind a proper vacation. Even the few times she’d been wrecked mentally and physically—and there had been weeks, months of difficulty—she powered through. Yes, she’d even gone in to work on Christmas Day before hopping on the train out to Southport to open gifts. She wasn’t exactly sure what the good folks at Kingsley, Maxwell & Traub would say about her summer sabbatical, but she would make it happen.

“Then I’ll stay, too,” Maggie volunteered, thinking of her budding relationship with Gray more than her relationship with Serena or helping

her sisters. “I can talk my way out of those obligations in Mill River. Or at the very least, show up there every few weeks whenever the bus full of AARP members from White Plains shows up.”

“Aren’t you obligated to actually live and work there in order to get the stipend and the housing?” Liza had to ask, bearing more responsibility for Maggie’s fellowship than Maggie.

“Let’s be honest, the only reason I got this fellowship was because I am William Sweeney’s daughter. Every time I’ve been forced to have a studio open house, a group of lovely women stands around watching me paint for five minutes and then asks about Dad. Or Mom. Or Mom and Dad together as if they were some sort of Jack and Jackie because they all read the Maeve book. If I tell them I need to take a break from public life because of Dad’s death, it will only add to my mystique.”

Liza understood. It happened at the gallery, too, mainly with the husbands who were less interested in art and more interested in discussing their literary hero.

Maggie had a brainstorm to seal the deal. “I’ve been thinking that doing a series of pieces of the house might be fitting. I could work out of the conservatory, like Mom did.” In truth, she hadn’t thought of painting anything at all until that second. It was the perfect plan to get her out of most of the work that needed to be done at Willow Lane, but still in the area to be close to Gray. Tricia was not impressed, but Liza lit up.

“Oh my gosh, yes. I would love that. I would love you to do that, Maggie. It would be so meaningful to have and to sell, and frankly”—Liza paused, then added—“pretty lucrative, I think! We could market to William Sweeney fans.” There was laughter because there was always laughter, no matter how dark the subject.

Even Cap Richardson laughed as he walked back into the conference room. “Your father would be proud, Liza. He always said if anyone was going to make money exploiting Bill Sweeney, it should be Bill Sweeney.

You’ve inherited the right. But keep it classy.”

“Always, Cap. Always,” Liza said. “We’ve decided to present a united front. Tricia and Maggie will stay here in Southport until the manuscript is found and the estate is in the black.”

Cap endorsed their plan. “I think that’s wise. This could drift forward for months, even years, unless you make a concerted effort to sort everything out. I look forward to working with you all.”

Liza turned to her sisters. “Wait, are we really doing this? You’re both staying for the summer?” Maggie and Tricia nodded. “Thank you.”

Liza reached to hug Tricia, who flinched and held her off. “You know I’m not a hugger. I get that it’s been a bad week, but let’s not start now.”

Tricia hung back as her sisters left the office. They were headed to The Grey Goose for lunch, probably to dissect every single word of what Serena had said and everything she was wearing, then back to the house to hunt for the manuscript. But she wanted a quick word with Cap. “So, what did you think?”

“Clearly, she’s more like Mitchell than Birdie.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mitch Tucker sold insurance to almost every person in this town. Well, at least, to every good soul that attended Trinity Church. He kept a lot of secrets about the value of people’s lives, both in terms of money and in terms of prestige. The two values were not always aligned. People trusted Mitch because he was trustworthy. Birdie, on the other hand, was a terrible gossip, slipping in commentary about her neighbors, the members of the club, the board at the library. She was entertaining if you were stuck in a corner with her at a party after a few gin and tonics, but she could be vicious, sometimes downright mean. Serena takes after her father. No wonder her sources trust her, her editors.” Cap poured himself another cup of coffee. “I don’t know what she’ll do with all of this—the information, the estate, the instant family. But I believe she will take her time in deciding. She won’t do anything rash or damaging in the short term.”

“Did she say that?”

“In so many words. As I walked her out, she said she’s taking the summer to figure out, quote, ‘all her next steps.’ We have our clock.”

“Good point.” Tricia’s phone pinged. No doubt it was a text from Maggie telling her to hurry, but she ignored it. “Oh, Cap, there was a card in my father’s desk I was curious about. From an archivist at Yale.” She fished through her bag and found it. “Raj Chaudhry. Is that name familiar? I’m thinking that working with an archivist may be helpful, even as I go through all the papers looking for the manuscript. We need to clean out the boathouse. It makes sense to do it in an orderly manner, but that’s not really my thing. I wondered if this Raj guy could be helpful.”

“Oh, I forgot all about Raj.”

“Do you know him?”

“I spoke to him on the phone after your father interviewed him. Your father hired him for the summer to do exactly what you are talking about—

organize his papers for the archives at Yale. He seemed like a nice young man who was thrilled to dive in. There was some sort of budget or grant for his work through Yale; Dean Payson set it all up. I haven’t gotten a call from the college yet, but I’m sure they’re eager to secure his papers. And poor Raj. He’s probably sitting at home wondering who to call. I was drawing up some nondisclosure papers and such. But I think your father even promised him a room for the summer.”

“Glad I asked. I’ll set up a meeting. It occurred to me that maybe my father kept the memoir at his office at Yale. This Raj guy might even know where. I seriously doubt my father could have wiped his computer clean of all files. Someone under the age of forty must have helped him; he couldn’t have done it alone. I’m headed to New Haven tomorrow to search his office. I’ll try to meet with this guy.”

Cap laughed and then got serious. “Your sisters are lucky to have you, Tricia. You’re right to be cautious.”

“Oh, another thing I’m cautious about is the royalty income. Does that seem low to you? After you mentioned the number, I did some digging.

Dad’s books are still taught in a lot of high schools and colleges. Never Not Nothing is on a lot of syllabi and so is Bitter Fruit. Do you think Lois’s accounting is on the up-and-up when it comes to the course adoption income?”

“I don’t and I was going to speak to you about that. I mentioned it to your father about two years ago after he told me that his royalties were drying up. It didn’t check out to me. But he was reluctant to pursue any inquiry in that area—said it was a show of bad faith and Lois had just landed him the memoir deal.”

“I’m all for a show of bad faith if we can do it discreetly. I don’t think the royalty income will make us millionaires, but I also don’t think Lois deserves more than her ten percent.”

“I’ll start to reach out to publishing people. See if the numbers sound right to them.”

“Thanks, Cap.” And she gave him a hug because he’d always be there for her.