Another light kiss on the lips, another lingering look, and she was sent back to Willow Lane alone.

Maybe it was for the best. Maggie knew this wasn’t an ideal time for a new relationship, but that was usually when she plunged in anyway.

When Tim showed up with the van full of easels and paints and brushes the next day, Maggie knew exactly what to do with all her extra energy: use this pain and make her art sing. Maggie loved seeing the look of disbelief on Tricia and Liza’s faces when Tim started unloading the U-Haul like Maggie told him to do.

“Really, Mags, a dishwasher?” Liza said as the three sisters studied Tim.

“He’s a chef.”

“No, he’s not.”

“Okay, he’s a line cook. But a very, very talented line cook.”

Maggie had poured herself into finishing the two paintings she owed Liza and starting Panes of Gold. She knew Liza would want the new work for her Sunflower opening even though there wasn’t one damn sunflower in the piece. She loved these tiny victories over her sisters.

It was one of the reasons she saw Serena as an ally. Maggie knew that neither Liza nor Tricia was ready to embrace Serena, but that made it all the more appealing to Maggie. The invitation, the texts, the big hello and the hugs. If there was to be a fourth Sweeney sister, Maggie wanted her on Team Maggie. Growing up, it was Liza and Maggie who were inseparably paired, the twosome who got into trouble and had each other’s back. But more and more lately, as Tricia matured, accepted more responsibility, and acquired skills like contract law that made her contribution to the family invaluable, it was Maggie who felt like the third wheel, the one the other two sisters talked about behind her back.

Serena was a chance to even the sides. Maggie needed her.

“You made it! This is the studio. Welcome!” Maggie waved the three of them in. Liza and Tricia stepped aside at the doorway, letting Serena enter first so she could soak in the atmosphere on her own. Then, they followed her in, standing to either side of the door, observing Serena’s reaction.

“This is an amazing room. Maggie, these paintings are beautiful.” Serena wandered around the glass-enclosed conservatory, taking in the explosion of color and texture. The two commissioned works were finished and leaned up against the end of a wooden picnic table covered in paint and brushes. Both were abstract landscapes, one rich with blues, greens, and purples, the other the warmer tones of fall. The new piece was on the easel, big and bold, a shift in tone from the other paintings. “I had no idea that you were so talented, Maggie.”

“Thank you. I’ve had a good couple of days,” Maggie answered, stroking Rufus the cat. “Maybe grief is good for me. Do you find you write in bursts, depending upon what’s going on in your life?”

“No. I started as a beat reporter and I will always be that in terms of work output, getting it done every day whether I’m inspired or not!” Serena laughed and all three of the Sweeney sisters joined in.

“That’s what our father always said when he walked out to the boathouse.

‘Time to punch the clock.’ You’re like him,” Maggie offered to Serena like a gift. “I’m more like our mother, fits and starts. All in or all out. My mother would write nothing for months, then lock herself in here for a few days and turn out an entire collection of poems. She wrote Winterland during the one week in 1996 when we got all that snow. We had the whole week off from school and it was a free-for-all. Peanut butter and jelly for all three meals because she was writing.”

“Winterland?” Serena asked, although from her research into all things Sweeney, she knew it was the title of Maeve’s only published collection.

Serena had even picked up a copy on Ebay for twenty-five bucks. She knew nothing about poetry, except what she had studied in high school English.

But Serena had liked the poems, found them accessible and easy to read.

Plus, every physical description took her back to Southport.

“That was the one poetry collection she published. I think the print run was about five hundred copies. It’s a beautiful little collection. I wish she’d had the chance . . .” Maggie’s voice fell off.

“Our mother didn’t write much after that. She sort of gave up. Too much going on here with us and my father. Then her health became her primary focus,” Liza explained when Maggie couldn’t.

“That’s a shame,” Serena said. “The world needs more poetry.”

Tricia rescued the conversation from the maudlin turn it had taken. “I remember that storm. We made those tunnels in the snowbanks. The whole street was out there for days, building and sledding. Mrs. Beamon brought us hot chocolate.”

“I remember going to school until the first of July because we had so many snow days that year. It was endless,” Liza added, realizing at that moment that she never really had loved school. “Serena, where were you that winter?”

“Here, I guess.” The room fell quiet. Serena had been right next door all along, but never a part of their world.

Maggie backtracked. “As I said, like my mother, I’m all in or all out. But to Liza’s relief, I’m all in this week.”

Serena nodded. “Whatever your process, your work is beautiful.”

Of course, Serena had seen Maggie’s work before, on a surreptitious visit to Liza’s gallery when Liza wasn’t there. And in her deep Pinterest and Instagram research, finding the occasional Maggie Sweeney popping up on a board or a feed. But better to let Maggie think that this was her first interaction with her art. Serena had already figured out that Maggie was playing a bit of one-upmanship with her sisters and she was happy to be a part of the game. “Tell me about this room.”

Liza jumped in, as the unofficial Willow Lane docent. “This was original to the house, believe it or not. Apparently, the first owners of Willow Lane were world travelers and the wife wanted a giant greenhouse where she could grow exotic plants and tomatoes in the winter. The glass ceiling and

the black-and-white-checkered marble floor were her touches. My mother told us the room was little more than a storage unit when they moved in.

Subsequent owners didn’t want to pay the enormous cost of heating the conservatory in the winter for a few tomatoes. My mother turned it into her studio, writing her poetry here, growing a few herbs, sewing us some truly unflattering dirndls in the late eighties. She would hang tapestries on the windows to warm it up in the cold months. We loved being in here with her.

She had a craft table in the corner for us.”

“Well, only those two loved crafts. I hated them,” Tricia said. “I liked to read in the enormous chair, covered in blankets.” The chair was still there, tucked into a cozy corner, clearly reupholstered in the recent past in blue-and-gold-striped fabric. The sisters all smiled at the recollection and Serena felt that flash of longing she’d experienced in the kitchen.

Liza continued, “Julia and I did a massive clean-out a few years ago. My twins Vivi and Fitz spend . . . spent a lot of time here and this was their magic spot. For some reason they thought it looked like the Ravenclaw Common room in Harry Potter, so I recovered a few things, bought some rugs, and had them paint their own faux crests. I think they’ll miss this place.”

The thought hadn’t really occurred to Liza before, that this place wasn’t only part of her childhood, it was part of Vivi and Fitz’s childhood, too.

Please don’t let me cry, thought Liza. “Sorry. That got to me.”

Maggie stepped closer to Liza and rubbed her back while the others stood in silence. After a moment, Maggie spoke, “Now, it’s my studio. At least temporarily.”

“This is shaping up, Mags,” Tricia said, looking at Panes of Gold. “This is the view across the harbor, right, to the big houses on Sasco? Where is this vantage point?”

“From Perry Green.” Maggie lied so quickly she surprised herself. “I’m hoping to have this done for you, Liza, if you want it for the opening next week.”

“Will the paint be dry?”

“Just about,” Maggie said. “Have you told Serena about your next show?

Sunflowers. Opens next week. Big Saturday night opening, but I think we can get you in.”

“I’d love to go.”

Tricia noticed Liza’s strained face. “Honestly, Liza, I can’t believe you’re taking that on after . . . everything.”

“It was on the calendar. My artists depend on me. Right, Maggie? I can’t let them down.”

Liza was giving herself a pep talk as much as answering Tricia’s question. It was obvious that her usual authentic enthusiasm was absent.