“No, and I wouldn’t have asked, either. I didn’t know him well, but he seemed very at ease that day, once I had erased the files and given him the drive. I’d gotten to know him in the library, of course, and attended some public lectures he gave, but I’d never seen him so . . . content. I think that’s the right word. He was very happy that I could help him that day and for the summer. Like he wanted to get his work in order.”

Tricia looked at Raj. She could understand why her father might have relaxed in his presence. He exuded competency, reliability. And a little something extra that held her attention, so she found herself saying, “The room in the boathouse is still available, if you wanted to stay. I think that’s the arrangement my father offered and I would, I mean, we would like to honor that. Not like Southport is a hot spot, but it’s beautiful in the summer.

I’ll be there, too.” She didn’t know why she added that last statement.

“I’d like that very much. I’d like to get out of New Haven and be there.

With you . . .” Raj admitted, then covered, “. . . and the papers. Plus, I’ve already sublet my apartment to a medical student. I have nowhere else to go.”

Chapter 11

Maggie pulled the Prius into the gravel-and-oystershell driveway of Gray’s house on Harbor Road. She was headed back to Mill River for a few days to make her excuses to the lovely, and hopefully understanding, members of the Art Commission, explaining that she couldn’t be in residence for the summer because she had to shore up the Sweeney estate.

And then she needed to pick up some fresh clothes and her cat Rufus. Tim the Line Cook had been on Rufus duty for the last week and Maggie was worried that Rufus would get attached, based on the photos Tim had been sending the last few days. Maggie had no intention of co-parenting a cat with Tim. But first, she needed to see Gray.

The Cunninghams had built one of the only modern houses on Southport Harbor on a subdivided lot back in the ’70s. Its construction had been the talk of the town for years, with a substantial number of tut-tutters who frowned on the abrupt architectural detour. (“I don’t understand why anyone would want to live in a big, ugly box when you could build a lovely Colonial,” Millie Reeves, the head of the Historical Society, had complained to Maeve Sweeney one afternoon after a few glasses of Chablis at a luncheon. Maeve had mimicked her for years later, much to her daughters’ delight, drawing out the words “lovely Colonial” for comedic effect.) But the lines of the Ulrich Franzen–designed house had held up over the decades, increasing in value as tastes changed. Finding this modern needle in a center-hall Colonial haystack would be a dream for some midcentury enthusiast or art collector.

Gray had explained at breakfast the other day that his parents had retired to Sea Island and he had offered to spend a year living in the house

restoring the floors, cabinets, and the suspended teak staircase that led to the open second story overlooking the water. After spending five years in Montana, one in rehab and four in an informal apprenticeship to a master woodworker, building houses for “rich tech guys who wanted to play rancher,” he had returned to town because he felt he owed his parents. Gray explained, “They sort of gave up on maintenance the last decade. It needs a little TLC before the house goes on the market. Plus, I need to make amends with about half the town of Southport, including your sister, but most of all my parents. It will probably take me at least a year to do penance.”

Now, Maggie grabbed the gift from the passenger seat and checked her makeup in the mirror. She liked what she saw, so she headed to find Gray.

Before she could knock, he opened the heavy wood door. “Hi.”

“You startled me.”

“Tulane?”

“One of my father’s favorite mugs. He loved New Orleans. Lectured at Tulane any time he was invited. He had a lot of writer friends there and they’d have these wild weekends. My mom loved it, too.” Maggie turned to look at the sparkling view over the water. She didn’t want to cry in front of Gray, for many reasons, not the least of which was her mascara. “I thought you might appreciate it. You spent a year at Tulane, right?”

“Three semesters, two of which I had passing grades.”

Recovered, she turned back to Gray. Oh, no! Was that shame on his face?

“Too close to home?” she asked, hoping her gesture hadn’t offended.

“Not at all. I had some good times in New Orleans, too. I wish I could remember more of them,” he joked comfortably. “Thank you. This is something, to have Bill Sweeney’s mug.”

Relief. “Well, I’m off. Headed to Mill River to tie up some loose ends and get my painting supplies, so I can be here this summer.” Maggie was hoping he would cut her off with some dramatic gesture or declaration of attraction, but Gray kept staring quietly, cradling the old mug in his hands.

“So, do you want to come for dinner on Sunday? I’ll be back and making a quinoa salad and soft-shell crabs.”

“I’ll put it on the calendar. Let me know if I need to bring anything.”

“Do you cook?”

“No. But I make bowls,” Gray said, indicating a beautiful walnut bowl on the counter filled with lemons and limes. “Will you be making salad? Do you need a bowl?”

“These are gorgeous. You made this?” Maggie picked up the bowl and ran her hands over the smooth wood. She gently placed it back down on the counter. “Like works of art. You should bring one of these. Liza may want to sell them at the gallery.” As soon as the words came out of Maggie’s mouth, she regretted them. She wanted to keep Gray to herself a little longer. “Maybe I could bring my quinoa and crabs over here? I don’t know if Willow Lane is right for entertaining.”

“Sure. Let’s do that. I know Willow Lane is beautiful at sunset, but it’s not too bad here, either. When you look across the harbor at the huge houses on Sasco Hill, the windows glow like gold. At least, that’s what I think.”

Window panes of gold. An image flashed in Maggie’s mind’s eye, a painting. Sometimes, when she least expected it, she returned to her art.

“I’d like to see that.”

He walked over and kissed her lightly, very lightly, on the lips. “See you Sunday. I gotta get back to work.”

Yes, Sunday.

The cool blues and the soothing grays of Liza’s living room never failed to relax her. Every time she entered the front door, she felt like she was leaving one world behind and entering another. That’s good design, Liza thought, as she hung her jacket up in the front hall and tossed her bag on the bench nearby.

Liza had worked with a talented interior designer out of Greenwich, Rigby Mayfair, to create the look of contemporary mixed with antiques in her Victorian house. “No oak, no scrolls of any kind” was Liza’s directive to her designer. “I don’t want this place to look like the Haunted Mansion.

Clean, clean, clean lines and colors.” Rigby had delivered, creating a space that surprised and relaxed as soon as you walked in the door. Plus, it was the ultimate showroom for the art from her gallery. Liza had sold pieces right off the wall at her last committee meeting. Her friends needed to see how contemporary art could work in historic homes. Her living room did exactly that.

And for her services, Liza traded out several pieces of art to Rigby for her personal collection and agreed to split her commissions on any pieces Rigby acquired for her clients over the next two years. The two creative businesswomen enjoyed each other’s company and admired each other’s eye. Liza wished she had more friends in her life like Rigby—supportive but not draining. It often felt to Liza like she did all the heavy lifting, all the time in all her relationships. How did that happen?

“C’mon, Jack. You live here now, I guess.”

The old golden plodded through the living room to the kitchen, where he knew there would always be something on the floor. He’d spent enough time at Liza’s to feel at home, but clearly, he missed his true owner. Liza’s lab Bear greeted him with enthusiasm.

“Hey,” Liza called out to Whit. He’d sent her a text saying he had a change of plans and would be home for the weekend instead of working through it in North Carolina. She was excited to see him. The kids were at camp. Her sisters were living their own lives for a few days. And she was trying to put the reality of Serena out of her head until she plunged back into the organizational mountain that was Willow Lane on Monday. Whit was home. Maybe she could finally breathe. “We’re home.”

“In the kitchen,” a male voice called back.