“Whoa.” It was all Raj could think to say, having very little experience being on the receiving end of such confidences. He had friends who were female, but they were usually other people’s girlfriends or wives, secondary acquaintances who might blurt out a few things in the kitchen after a long night of Scrabble and drinking. But he didn’t usually get the good stuff. An

illegitimate daughter living next door? This might have huge implications on the interpretation of Sweeney’s work, he thought, then realized that was a purely academic reaction to a very personal revelation. He added, “That’s a lot of information for the three of you to take in during such a difficult time.”

“Thank you, Raj. It is. And I’m telling you not to burden you but so that you’re informed about everything concerning my father. You may come across something in your work that would be helpful to us in terms of understanding our father’s actions. If you do, we’d appreciate you passing that on.”

Raj noticed that Liza and Tricia had the same affect of using the word

“we” instead of “I” when speaking about anything Sweeney related, as if they represented an organization or a foundation more than a family. “I hope this doesn’t come off wrong, but having an affair and then a child outside of marriage is kind of on-brand for William Sweeney.”

The comment made Liza laugh. “That is one way to think about it.”

“Do you understand that this information has value in terms of your father’s work? This is the kind of personal detail that may inspire new interpretations of classic pieces.”

“We do.” She tried not to sound exasperated with Raj. “It’s all Tricia talks about. We get it and it’s why we’d like to get to know Serena better before we announce it to the world.”

“And why you are so desperate to find that memoir.”

“Do we seem desperate?”

“Yes.” They both laughed. “Does Serena know about the memoir? There could be some true surprises in the book if your father reveals the truth about her.”

“She hasn’t said anything about the memoir. But she must know. She’s a journalist and Tricia’s convinced that she’s been researching her own book for the last six months since she accidentally discovered the genetic link.

Deep background, Tricia keeps saying. Making ominous predictions about how what Serena has told us is only the tip of the iceberg about what she knows.”

“Why wouldn’t Tricia tell me this?” Raj wondered if Tricia was ashamed of her father. Or jealous of Serena. Or both.

Liza started to explain, “Tricia’s a lawyer. She has trust issues.” Then she noticed the disappointment in Raj’s face. He likes her. Liza knew she

needed to soften the blow, but that wasn’t easy. Tricia’s preferred state of being was firm, bordering on rigid, when it came to opinions, regimens, romance. “She’s protective of my father’s legacy in every way. From the literary interpretations that you mentioned to his personal reputation here in Southport. She sees every issue from every angle. That can make her cautious.”

“Every collection I’ve ever worked on is filled with unexpected truths.”

“What do you mean?”

“Case in point, five years ago, I was the primary archivist for the Celia Longley collection that had been donated to Johns Hopkins. Do you know her work?”

It occurred to Liza to lie, covering up for what she perceived to be a gap in her education, but what was the point, really? She knew art, Raj knew books. They weren’t in competition. “Never heard of her.”

“She was a contemporary of Emily Dickinson’s. In fact, they were correspondents, exchanging letters and poetry and some pretty hot passages, if you know what I mean. Like Dickinson, Longley didn’t publish much in her lifetime, but her work was discovered afterward by an ardent Dickinson scholar who unearthed the poems while studying Dickinson’s letters.”

“Where’s this going, Raj? Doesn’t everyone know Dickinson liked the ladies?”

“It’s a disputed theory. But it was Longley’s personal papers that hid a mountain of really unpleasant information. Sure, she was into Emily and many other married Amherst women, but that’s not career-ending these days. In fact, her work was gaining popularity in LGBTQ academia. But digging into her papers, I discovered that Celia was an anti-Semite, vocally anti-immigrant, and a big believer in castration or sterilization for the disabled and mentally ill. Plus, she practiced the dark arts in her basement, and that included animal sacrifices. The truth about who she was as a person really made people rethink her charming poems about peonies. Her work was dropped by a lot of anthologies and curriculums just as it was starting to be recognized at the same level as Dickinson’s. You never know what lurks in people’s papers.”

“My father was no saint, but I don’t see him engaging in animal sacrifice.”

“Probably not. But this happens all the time, new revelations after death.

Writers are real people and their lives are messy. But that informs the

work.”

“Any advice?”

“You will survive the truth.”

You will survive the truth. That was exactly what Liza needed to hear.

“Thank you, Raj. Let’s go back before Serena figures out that my father’s password is the name of his boat. Which will probably take her about twenty seconds.”

Serena looked up and saw Liza and Raj heading back to the boathouse. She quickly closed the bottom drawer of the file cabinet. What was she thinking? That William Sweeney would keep a big file titled “Rebecca” in his office? Or that Tricia—thorough, methodical Tricia—wouldn’t have already found it? She felt foolish about her actions.

The door opened and, to Serena’s surprise, it was Tricia. “You’re finished here.” It came out as a command, not a question. “Maggie has requested that I deliver you to her studio. She’s working on a few things she wants to show you. Which never happens—neither the frantic work nor the sharing

—so maybe you’re some kind of muse to her now.”

Was that jealousy in Tricia’s voice? Serena thought so. She grabbed her bag and took a last look around. Maybe if she could get Tricia to trust her, she’d be allowed to come back to the boathouse on her own. To soak it all in.

Chapter 14

Maggie looked out across the lawn from the conservatory where she had set up her studio in record time. She saw Serena walking with Liza and Tricia and the two old dogs, Jack and Bear, plodding along beside them.

She felt victorious. I am doing a good thing. I’m bringing people together.

Ever since her return from California by way of the ashram in India, Maggie had struggled to find her place amongst the sisters. There was Liza, so successful, so organized, and goddamn if she still didn’t have that same killer body after two kids. She would always be the gold standard for the Sweeney sisters, even if she wasn’t quite as book smart as Tricia. And Tricia would never know how beautiful she was because she insisted on wearing gender-neutering navy-blue suits and a perennial blunt cut. She could handle anything, despite being the youngest sister. Liza and Tricia were two above-average bookends in the family; Maggie felt like the gooey middle with not much to show for it except a longer list of exes and the best hair.

Even this artist-in-residence stint was more make-believe than substantive, better on paper than in real life. But here she was, back at Willow Lane, and despite the shock of her father’s death, she was holding it together personally and beyond. The art installation at the wake. Her willingness to meet Serena beyond halfway. The new energy with which she was painting. Like her father had said, use the pain and make her art sing.

And then there was Gray.

Maggie knew, she knew, that the whole relationship was what Tricia would call “ill-advised.” Yes, pursuing the boy who broke her sister’s heart

was ill-advised, but that had been a long time ago, and look at Liza’s life now. Big house, solid husband, perfect kids, a creative and money-making career. Maggie didn’t have any of those assets; how could Liza begrudge her Gray?

Dinner the other night at Gray’s had been one long tease, like some sort of foreplay marathon with an open-ended conclusion. Gray had been charming, funny, generous with his laughter. He’d given her some lingering looks and praised her soft-shelled crabs. Maggie had felt the spread of warmth at the end of the night she usually associated with the right amount of red wine and candlelight, except there had been no wine because of Gray’s sobriety and Maggie did what she always did with men, acquire their eating and drinking habits. (When she was with the starter husband, she became a fussy cocktail and red meat fan. When she was with Darren, the controlling film director, it was all about plant-based proteins, green drinks, and vodka, the lowest-carb booze. The only exception was Roger, the ballet dancer. He didn’t drink caffeine, so Maggie tried to give up coffee but that wasn’t sustainable and neither was Roger.)

Maggie thought the evening was perfect; even the few minutes she broke down about her father didn’t faze Gray. Maggie thought everything with Gray seemed right on track for something more to happen. But nothing did.