“You know, I don’t think about my piece of the estate like that. This is your home, not mine.” Serena was determined not to let the Sweeneys get the upper hand as they had at Cap’s office. She was going to stand her ground. She wanted them to know she wasn’t as taken with them as she had appeared. “This always was a very special house. I remember your mother hosting those May Day celebrations. Didn’t she have all the neighbor girls over and we danced around the maypole in crowns made of flowers? She taught us some Irish songs, too. I recall being here for several of those. Not that many people celebrate May Day. It was memorable.”

With only a few words, Liza was taken back to her childhood. Maeve had celebrated the day with a nod toward her Celtic heritage, and Serena was right. There was dancing, singing, lots of little girls in party dresses with flowers in their hair. Her mother would dress as the May Queen with all sorts of hippie-inspired flourishes and recite poetry with great flair while the other mothers in town, clutching their wine spritzers and Nantucket straw bags, looked on in bemused confusion. Liza imagined that Birdie Tucker had plenty to say at the next Ladies’ Day at the club about “that crazy pagan poet Maeve Sweeney.” The celebrations had only gone on for a few years, while Tricia was still very young. Then their mother was diagnosed with cancer and the May Day parties stopped. Liza hadn’t

thought about them in years. They had been wonderful. “Do you remember those, Tricia?”

“I don’t remember the parties, but I remember that photo of Mom. She looked like a character out of A Midsummer Night’s Dream with some sort of bird’s nest in her hair and she was wearing a toga. She was not really Southport material.”

“We should find that one. It must be here somewhere.”

After Maeve died, the photos of her that had been all over the house slowly disappeared. Every time the girls came back from school or a trip, one or two more had been tucked away, as if their father couldn’t bear to witness her image. There was one photo left in the boathouse and the sisters each had photos in their own homes, but here at Willow Lane, Maeve was a memory. Liza turned to Serena. “What did your mother make of those parties, Serena?”

“My mother stood in harsh judgment of most events that involved genuine joy and spontaneity. Frivolity wasn’t her thing.”

“Huh,” Tricia said. “Then how did your mother end up sleeping with my father?”

Liza snapped, “Tricia!”

“I’m sorry. It’s the obvious question. We all want to know, so let’s not pretend we don’t.” So much for killing with kindness, but Serena had opened the door by characterizing Birdie Tucker as a woman who was neither passionate nor spontaneous, two essential elements for a one-night stand or any sort of illicit affair between married coconspirators. “You’re a journalist, you must have asked her. What happened between the two of them? When? Where?” Tricia wanted to ask why, but that seemed over the top.

Serena was about to answer when Maggie burst through the swinging door into the kitchen. She was wearing a white utility jumpsuit covered in paint splatter and her magnificent red hair was tied up in a scarf. She was glowing in the way a person might after they’d encountered a secret crush.

Her work was going well and her spirit reflected it. Seeing Serena seated at the kitchen table with Liza and Tricia was a shocking sort of throwback to the best and worst days in the Sweeney family history. Maggie made a beeline to hug Serena. “Hey, you’re here. I’m so happy!” Then Maggie took a breath and noticed the cool temperature of the room. “So, what’d I miss?”

There was dead silence. Then Tricia spoke up. “I asked how her mother and our father happened to sleep together.”

“I can’t believe you,” Maggie said, always comfortable taking the underdog’s side as a sign of her superior empathy. In this room, Serena was definitely the underdog. “I’m so sorry. My invitation was not an ambush.

Jesus, Tricia.”

“Please, I feel like the least we should be with each other is honest. This isn’t an ideal situation. And we’re here because the adults in our lives were less than honorable. So, everybody should hop off those high horses.”

“I didn’t ask,” Serena insisted. “I never asked my mother how or why.”

“How is that possible?” Tricia wouldn’t let it go.

Serena didn’t back down. “I need more information before I seek an explanation. That’s how I work, Tricia. I research first, ask questions later, if possible. I would rather go to my mother with a folder full of facts for her to confirm than sit in front of her with a blank notebook and have her tell me a story that may or may not be true. This is my training.” The four of them sat at the table drinking the lattes and feeling each other out. Liza, uncomfortable with the content of the conversation, organized a plate of lemon cookies to go with the marble loaf cake. Nobody ate anything, but at least the exercise of plating the cookies gave her an excuse to avoid eye contact with Serena. Maggie, on the other hand, was completely engaged, nodding along to indicate her solidarity with Serena.

“I understand that you all want to know about their relationship before you can move on with our relationship . . .” Serena waved her hand around, indicating the four of them. “So do I. But my mother isn’t like I imagine your mother was, open and articulate about life and emotions. My mother and I don’t hold each other in confidence. Someday soon, my mother and I will sit down and have a conversation about this. But first, I need to understand more about William Sweeney and what’s at stake.”

“I don’t get that at all. It’s the first question I’d ask,” Tricia said.

“Me, too,” Maggie agreed. “I’d want the details.”

“Not me,” Liza said.

For a moment, there was a communal understanding of the strangeness of the situation. How did they all get here? And, really, what questions did they want answered?

Maggie saw an opportunity to be the great defender. “Are you satisfied, Tricia? This isn’t a trial. Can we give Serena a tour now?”

“Yes, of course. I apologize, Serena. The last few weeks have been filled with change and information, some of which, frankly, has been startling.

You’ve had a chance to sit with these . . . revelations for several months.

For us, it’s been a lot to take in. I ask questions first, put it all together later.

That’s my training.” Tricia’s phone rang and she popped up to answer it.

“It’s work. So much for my sabbatical. This could take a couple of hours.

Excuse me.”

Liza was relieved that Tricia had left the kitchen. “Why don’t we show you the boathouse first?”

Chapter 13

Liza walked Serena across the lawn, making conversation. “How’s the guesthouse at the Winthrops’? I think she’s done some work on it recently.

She used Mike Costello as the general contractor. He was working for me at the same time doing some upgrades at the gallery, a new mini-kitchen for openings, but Lucy Winthrop had Mike wrapped around her finger, tied up every day. I had to personally appeal to Mrs. Winthrop to let Mike finish up my job before a big opening. She gets wants she wants, Lucy Winthrop.”

Liza was desperate to change the subject. “Here we are. Did Tricia mention that there is an archivist here from Yale sorting out the papers? Knock, knock.”

Liza was relieved to hear Raj’s voice from within: “Come in.”

“Hi, Raj. Sorry to bother you. We have a visitor who wanted to see my father’s office before everything goes off to New Haven. This is Serena Tucker.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Raj Chaudhry. Tricia said you were a journalist, but she didn’t mention you were a relative.”

“She is a journalist,” Liza said, irrationally, hoping to throw off the flow of conversation.

“Pardon?” Serena said.

“Well, you must be a cousin. You look exactly like Tricia with blond hair.”

“Yes,” Liza said. “Something like that.”

Standing in the boathouse, taking in the literary importance of the space, Serena was emotional. This was William Sweeney’s office. This was her father’s office.

She wished the contents hadn’t been organized, boxed, and labeled. She wished that her father had agreed to meet with her as she had requested. She wished she had had a single moment with him during his lifetime where the two of them could have acknowledged the truth, forgiven the past, and talked about the present, about writing and life. Serena was bitter about her mother withholding the truth, but she was more bitter that she didn’t get any time with her “birth father”—a term she hated because it made no sense. He wasn’t there for her birth and he’d never been a father to her.

Serena knew in her heart that Mitch Tucker was a decent man, stable to a fault and probably responsible for her steady emotional state. He was and had been a fine father. But William Sweeney was an extraordinary talent, a genius, even. Standing in his office was not enough, but it was something.

And that something made her weepy.

Raj shot Liza an alarmed look. Liza said quietly, “We’ll give you some time here, Serena. Raj, can I speak with you on the dock?”