Don’t look back. Don’t look back. Serena could feel the sisters staring down at her but she willed herself to get into the car before she let herself relax.

She was exhausted, shaking. Damn it. She liked them. She liked those Sweeney sisters. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might feel any connection to them. Curiosity about them? Yes. Connection to them? No.

She wanted to stay detached, to give herself time to decide what to do with the revelation that she was the daughter of William Sweeney. She walked into that conference room determined to take control of the conversation and get as much information out of the sisters as possible. She had the sense that something wasn’t entirely on the up-and-up about the estate or the death. She had picked up on some murmurs at the wake about his recent foray back into gambling and later overhead a conversation between two New York–publishing types, both women in their forties who looked to be in positions of power, one of whom was bemoaning to the other, “We’ll never get that memoir now. This is a huge deal for us. I’m sure that advance is long gone.”

Serena added those conversations to the pile of research she’d already done on her birth father. The gambling, the drinking, the finances in shambles—that was standard operating procedure for William Sweeney, self-documented in his books and essays. But this missing memoir was a new piece of the puzzle. Could she be in it? She’d have to research the publishing announcement and see why the editor or whoever she was said it was “a huge deal.” Something was up and she wanted to find out what it was.

But then, Liza, Maggie, and Tricia had disarmed her in the meeting. They were the ones asking the questions, skillfully and sincerely. With their pressure, Serena had opened up about her job, the latest boyfriend who was not exactly divorced, the ski club trips, her favorite antiques shop in Georgetown. It was like the book club she attended, but without the wine or any pretense of reading a book. Serena was flattered by the attention; she wanted in on this club.

She only had a small cadre of female friends, a few from college scattered around the country now, and some work friends collected over the years who might be posted in DC or in some foreign land. None of whom she thought of as a sister. But now she had three sisters. She had initially thought the headline coming out of the DNA reveal was that her father was

William Sweeney, but, maybe, it was that she was one of the Sweeney sisters now.

She sat in the front seat of the rental car, trying to remember how the keyless ignition worked, shaking and shaken. Her decision to take a leave of absence and stay in Southport was a no-brainer. She’d made it in a snap second when Lucy Winthrop offered the guesthouse, but, in truth, she knew she was on an epic journey the moment she boarded the train in DC after hearing about the death. Yesterday, she was confident in her plan to spend the summer in Southport, getting to know her sisters and working on a book proposal. Yes, she wanted to write about this. She had a right to tell her own story, didn’t she? It was a worthwhile story to tell.

But today, having sat at a table with the Sweeneys for more than an hour, sharing stories and laughs, she had to admit, she liked her half-sisters.

Writing a book about them might be a betrayal. Liza was cultured and inquisitive. Maggie was earthy, warm, and a bit bawdy. And with Tricia, it was like looking in a mirror, in terms of physical appearance and personality. She appreciated that Tricia was standoffish and skeptical. That was how Serena felt when she’d walked in the conference room. Only she’d succumbed to the Sweeney charms while Tricia remained her own person.

Serena admired her.

She pulled into the parking at the Delamar. In the morning, she’d be back on the train to collect her car and her belongings for the summer. She would resign from her job before Straight Up closed down for good, as Tricia had suspected. She’d find a house sitter, probably that nice editorial intern who lived with four other broke college-educated interns in a two-bedroom in Hays Adams. She’d jump at the chance. Plus, she was quiet and smart, not a party girl at all. Then, she’d contact that agent, Susie Burns, from New York, who’d said to her at a party for yet another political tell-all at the National Press Club, “If you ever have a book idea, let me know. I’m interested in anything you have to say.”

And maybe, just maybe, she’d return the call from her mother, who’d left a brief message yesterday, saying, “Serena, it’s Mother. I hear you are in Southport. Call me. Please.”

Chapter 9

About two hours into the hunt for the manuscript, Liza, Maggie, and Tricia figured out that all the sisters searching in one small space was not going to work. The three of them bossing each other around in the boathouse had produced only the password to Bill Sweeney’s computer (Sunkissed1147, the boat’s name plus the Willow Lane house numbers). Tricia had spent several hours searching the hard drive with Liza looking over her shoulder, an arrangement that wasn’t sustainable for either of them. Tricia was searching systematically by key words and wondering how a guy whose computer security system could be compromised by a Post-it with his password stuck to the side of the monitor could possibly have gotten rid of all digital traces of the memoir. Liza felt that reorganizing the file system on the computer would be a better place to start than with what she called

“completely random word searches” that her lawyer sister was insisting upon.

Maggie, as per usual, was sitting on the couch thumbing through old magazines and texting somebody with frequency and delight, piping up every few minutes with “Need anything?” or “Let me know what I can do.”

When they were growing up, the only time Maggie showed leadership or initiative in a family project was if it involved boys or shopping for clothes; otherwise, she focused on what worked for Maggie.

Once they realized that the manuscript hunt wouldn’t be as easy as logging on and printing it out, it took them about ten minutes to devise a plan of separate but equal distribution of work, at least on paper. Tricia would take the boathouse and its contents, including boxes and boxes of old papers that might be the perfect hiding spot for a mystery manuscript.

Maggie would take the library and conservatory to do a backup manuscript search and gather any additional documents that might have migrated inside and should be included with the rest of the papers. And Liza would get the house ready to sell by cleaning out closets, drawers, and entire rooms that hadn’t been touched in years, packing or donating everything in sight.

“I wish Julia was here. I bet she knows where the damn book is,” Tricia said. The sisters had shared a tearful goodbye with the housekeeper. She was thrilled with the money. Clearly, she believed she had earned it but was also grateful that “Mister Bill” had come through in the end. Her plan was to sock most of the sudden windfall into a retirement account like Liza suggested, but splurge a little and spend the summer back in San Juan with her own family, including her aging parents. In the fall, she’d return to her tidy little house in Bridgeport and find a new family to care for. But she had told the sisters she would help pack up Willow Lane before leaving for Puerto Rico. “I can’t let you girls do this all on your own.”

“Absolutely not. You’ve already done too much for our family,” Liza had insisted. “Go be with your own family and enjoy the summer.”

They were missing Julia now, though. Tricia was right. She might know exactly where the manuscript was stashed. “I’ll text her and ask,” Liza offered. Julia responded immediately with the word No followed by a string of question marks. “We’re on our own.”

“So, we’re all settled, then. Everyone knows what they need to do.

Maggie?”

Maggie looked up from her phone. “Yeah, all good. Do we have enough boxes? Should I run out and get packing stuff at U-Haul?” Liza and Tricia practically did a double take at Maggie’s pragmatism and offer of aid.

“What? Come on, give me some credit.”

“Knock yourself out,” Liza said. “Go get some boxes, but not the huge ones. We need to be able to lift them. Most of this stuff is either going to Goodwill or the dump. Except the papers, which are all going to Yale.”

“And some of the personal stuff. We can divvy that up later.”

“No tagging any artwork until I get back,” Maggie said, half joking. She didn’t think her sisters would hide pieces from her, but she wasn’t a hundred percent sure.