Whit, still in his suit, no tie, was pouring himself a Scotch and eating the men’s health nut mix that Liza ordered for him from an online market that specialized in organic snacks and pantry ingredients. He looked tired, beat up, as he did a lot these days. The long hours, the travel, the stress of closing big deals had begun to take its toll on Whit.

A few years older than Liza, he’d turned forty last October and seemed to be aging rapidly. Less hair, less vigor, more back pain. Young Whit, the athletic guy who’d run up and down the AYSO soccer field doing his volunteer reffing stint even after a long week at work, was gone, replaced by the guy who’d nap on the couch on Saturdays while watching golf. Their social life had dwindled to practically zero. His work schedule was so erratic when he was in the middle of a deal, Liza couldn’t even count on him to show up at an event on a Saturday night, never mind an opening reception at the gallery on a Thursday. They connected less and less frequently—at dinner, over wine, in the bedroom—and neither had the guts to mention the distance between them. The last thing Liza wanted was to become one of those wives who confided to her friends in the ladies’ locker

room that she only had sex once a month, but that was becoming their story more months than not.

Liza was only thirty-six; she’d had her kids young and still felt young, even though most of her Southport “mommy” friends with teenagers were a decade older. She didn’t want to age any faster than she needed to, but Whit’s energy loss had her worried for her own aging process. She’d be an empty nester in five years. She wanted to reinvigorate her life, but frankly, Whit was bringing her down. While she resisted, he embraced his sedentary, neatly paved future that revolved around British crimes dramas on Netflix, dinners at the club with the same few couples or his parents, and the occasional trip to the Caribbean. Only last month, after they’d managed to get themselves into Madison Square Garden to see a concert on a weeknight, Whit announced, “That’s it. No more concerts for me. My ears can’t take the noise.” Noise? It was Dave Matthews!

But tonight, Liza was filled with gratitude that he was here and that they could be alone together. It had been a year since the kids were last at camp and they’d had time to themselves. “I was happy to get your text. Why the change in plans? I thought you were staying in Durham this weekend?”

“I felt like I needed to be here. Hey, Jack.” Whit gave the dog a pat on the head and a belly rub. He loved that dog. “Do you want a drink?”

It was 4:30. That seemed a little early, but what the hell. It had been a week. “Sure. A vodka tonic. I’ll cut some lime.”

Whit made the drink with his usual care. He was good at tending bar. It was one of the things that Liza had been drawn to when they first started dating fifteen years ago, that he was an attentive host and competent bartender at gatherings. He and some college buddies had been renting a small beach house in nearby Westport for the summer, commuting back and forth from New York City. Liza had known him for years, but their age difference meant they’d never been in school together. That, and Whit was a private-school kid all the way, from Country Day to St. Paul’s to Trinity for college. But in a small town, age differences fade in college and there were nights at the Shoe or house parties where they’d run into each other all the time. They connected at a Fourth of July party a few months after Gray had left, abandoned Liza, really, and she was in a vulnerable state. Her mother was dying and she wasn’t going back to college. Whit had made her a Long Island Iced Tea even though he wasn’t the official party host and his

composure and care struck the exact right chord in Liza. Six months later, they were married.

Liza put down the four mugs she’d chosen from her father’s extensive collection, one for each of them: Wesleyan for Vivi, BC for Fitz, Trinity College Dublin for Whit, and Hamilton for her. Liza had wanted to go to Hamilton, but didn’t have the grades. This mug was as close as she was going to get. She washed the lime and cut it in quarters.

“What are those?” Whit asked her, setting down the vodka tonic.

“Mugs. You know, from my father’s mug collection. I thought everybody in the family should have one. Look, Trinity College Dublin for you. Close as I could get to your alma mater.”

“Great. Just what we need, more crap from you father’s house.”

Liza was hurt. “This isn’t crap. It’s memories. And I don’t think four mugs are going to engulf the house in clutter.”

“First, it’s the mugs, Liza, then it will be everything. Like it always has been with your family.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that no matter what I ask, you choose your father first. I specifically said, I didn’t want all that crap here and yet, here it is.”

“It’s four mugs.”

“And next it will be his desk. Then his favorite chair. Then all those old, dusty posters of all those dead writers.”

Liza assumed Whit was talking about the beautiful hand-drawn quotes from Joyce, Beckett, and Synge that her father had collected on his many trips to Ireland. She loved those pieces. She had tagged them at Willow Lane with her personal Post-its. She thought that Fitz would like to have them one day when he went to college and realized exactly who his grandfather was. “Those are valuable. And meaningful.”

“See what I mean?”

“What about Jack? Should I drop him off at the pound tomorrow? Is that the kind of crap you mean?”

“Of course not. Jack is a great dog,” Whit said firmly. But then he added,

“My point is that I don’t really want to be surrounded by your father every minute for the rest of my life.”

“What are you talking about? My father was decent to you. He . . .” She hesitated because even Liza knew love was the wrong word. “. . . admired you.”

“He tolerated me. For fifteen years, he tolerated me. And it was clear, he felt I was never good enough for you. Or for him. I’m sorry if I prefer John Grisham to his navel-gazing literary bullshit.”

“Wow. How do you really feel, Whit? I mean, maybe you could have let me know your bitterness and resentment before he died. Because now, when I’m sad and exhausted and in emotional overdrive, you’ve added guilt. Do you want me to feel awful that I made you suffer through all those horrible family dinners, where my father, the Presidential Medal of Freedom honoree, made you feel inadequate?”

“See what I mean?”

“My point is that he was brighter than all of us. Than me, than you, than almost everybody he interacted with. He wasn’t your average dad. My God, I would think after all these years, you’d get that. We are average, maybe above average. But he wasn’t. He was exceptional.”

“Liza, I have watched you spend every minute of the last fifteen years worried about something—my blood pressure, our kids’ standardized test scores, your sister’s love life. But mainly, your father, every day. Every damn day. He’s dominated our lives and I’ve put up with it, all of the shitshow that was Bill Sweeney. But now he’s gone and I don’t want his fucking mugs in my house.” Whit picked up the Trinity mug like he was going to smash it against the wall, but lowered his arm when Jack began to whimper. “I’m sorry.”

It wasn’t clear to whom Whit was apologizing: to Liza or to Jack.

“Is that why you came home? To tell me how much you hated my father?”

“I didn’t hate him. But I didn’t idolize him.” Whit stood in front of the corkboard wall filled with family photos and mementos. The twins at Halloween when they were toddlers dressed up as bread and butter. Tickets to the US Open at Shinnecock. Liza and Whit in Bermuda for their tenth anniversary. The big family photo from last Thanksgiving. All that mattered on one corkboard. He took another slug of his Scotch. “I’ve been asked to stay in Durham. To run the company, at least for one year. To be the interim CEO. And I’ve said yes.”

Liza needed a moment to process all the words Whit said in such a rush.

Durham. Year. Interim CEO. Yes. “Without talking to me?”

“You had a lot going on. And really, there was nothing to discuss. I need this, for my career and, frankly, for my sanity. I need to be away from all

this for a while.”

“All this? Your wife and kids?”

“Without distraction. I need to focus on work. And from what you’ve told me, this business with the house and the estate will take a while to settle. You’ll be fully engulfed in all that drama.”

“Oh, and don’t forget the surprise sister that showed up. Yeah, why would you want to support me through the next few months? It’ll be smooth sailing.”

“I support you. But I’m not going to let this opportunity for me slip by because your family is going through its usual upheaval. I can’t be a part of that drama anymore. Everything I warned you about has happened—the debt, the unfinished business, the messy relationships. I can’t deal with it anymore.”

“And Vivi and Fitz? Are they flotsam and jetsam?”