“That’s what I heard from Janey Masters. She heard it from her daughter-in-law who went to Georgetown with Whit and ran into him at the airport in some city in North Carolina. Durham? I think that’s it. Well, she said Whit told her he was relocating there permanently, but his family wasn’t moving down because he and his wife were splitting.”

“Poor Liza. Obviously, no one’s told me anything that personal.”

“Well, from what I hear, there’s a lot brewing in that family in terms of finances and such. I mean, your family,” Lucy said, suddenly delighted by the idea. “It’s really something to get a whole new family halfway through your life. You are writing something, aren’t you? Please tell me this is going to be a Vanity Fair blockbuster piece with all the salacious details.”

Serena filed the information about the Sweeney family financial difficulties away for further research, responding, “Lucy! I thought you were my mother’s friend!”

“I am. But, let’s face it, this is a pretty sexy story. Bill Sweeney and the mom next door. It has it all: literary genius, family secrets, broken hearts.

You owe this to the world.”

“What about my father? What do I owe him? I think about that.”

“I think for the answer to that question, you should talk to a therapist, a lawyer, and Mitch Tucker, in that order.”

“Oh, I’ve been to a therapist. And lurked in online groups for NPEs.

That’s what we’re called, Not Parent Expected, a bastardization of a genealogy term. It means people who didn’t quite get the DNA results they thought they were going to get. We’re a growing cohort. I’m not sure it’s my cohort.”

“All I know is that I’ve reached an age where I wish I had my own story to tell.”

“I’m not sure I believe you. I’m pretty sure you have your own vault of sexy secrets under lock and key.” The older woman shrugged innocently, drink to lips. “Wait, broken hearts? Whose broken heart?”

“That is your mother’s tale to tell. You should call her, Serena.”

The two women looked out across Long Island Sound to the pink sky.

The paddleboarders and sea kayakers were headed back to shore as the light faded. Serena finished her drink, imagining the stories that hadn’t been told all up and down the Gold Coast.

Chapter 16

It was late, but Liza hadn’t wanted to go home, so she stopped at the gallery to catch up on paperwork and write up her master to-do list for the next week. A part of her wanted to cancel the whole show. She had overheard Maggie tell Tricia, “Sunflowers is a lame concept, designed to please the lowest common denominator of art buyers who would be wandering through the gallery over the summer season.”

Maybe Maggie was right. But a few months ago, Liza had walked into the studio of one of her most reliable artists and a dear old friend, Kat Ryan, a true local whose mother, Cordelia, had also been a beloved painter and art advocate in the area. (Both had educated and inspired Liza to start her gallery; there was no value Liza could put on their friendship and support.) Kat’s new work blew Liza away. Kat had spent the previous fall in Provence and had committed her recent work to pay tribute to van Gogh.

When Liza saw her glorious oils of fields of sunflowers saturated in Provencal light and colors, she said, “We could make a fortune on these.

How many will you have by July?”

“Six big ones and a dozen guest-bathroom sizes.” The old friends laughed.

Cha-ching. They committed to the show right there. The summer crowds liked beautiful. They liked pleasing. And Kat’s sunflowers were both, but with enough technique and depth to attract more sophisticated collectors who needed something for their new sunrooms or she-sheds. With a few other artists on board using sunflowers as a literal or metaphoric theme, the show was shaping up to be the biggest and potentially the most lucrative in Sweeney Jones history. Still, Liza wished it would all go away.

Truth was, she did need Serena if she was going to pull this off. She hadn’t realized how behind she’d let things get while looking for the memoir. She sent a quick text, asking Serena to report for public relations duty in the morning.

There was a knock on the gallery door. Liza, startled, looked up from her computer screen. Bear, sitting at her feet, barked at the man in the window.

It was Gray. He waved at her and motioned to her to unlock the door. She did as he asked, unlocked the door and then turned her back on him, returning to her desk. She needed some sort of physical barrier between herself and this man, her present and her past.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Gray called out to her back.

“Surprised more than scared.”

“I was driving home and saw you through the window,” Gray said as if that was enough of a reason to interrupt her life after fifteen years. He held out a beautiful wooden bowl, clearly hand-turned and high quality. Was it black walnut? Liza wasn’t sure, but it reminded her of the coveted Andrew Pearce bowls from Vermont. “I wanted to show you this.”

She took her place behind the desk. “A big bowl. Did you make this?”

“I did. I do woodworking now and someone suggested that you might be interested in carrying these in the gallery.” Gray’s blue eyes had not dimmed one bit in all these years. If anything, they were brighter, deeper.

Liza forced herself to be unreceptive. Of course Gray has such extreme self-confidence that he walks into my gallery after more than a decade of no contact to try to get me to rep his fucking bowls. “I don’t sell housewares,”

she said flatly, knowing she could probably sell ten a week, easy.

Silence. “I’m sorry, Liza.”

“About which part, Gray? Abandoning me? Never reaching out to me?

My dad? Showing up here with your salad bowl after fifteen years and expecting me to go into business with you?”

“All of that. And a lot more. I feel like you are one of the people in my life that I hurt the most and one of the people that will be on my apology list for life.”

“I’m good, Gray. I’m not that twenty-one-year-old girl anymore. You don’t need to keep me on any list.” Liza turned her back on him, pretending to file some papers. She didn’t want to hold eye contact. It was too hard.

“I am very sorry about your father.”

She turned back to face him. “He never liked you.”

“That was clear. And I don’t blame him. I was a colossal asshole who treated his daughter like crap. But I know he liked you. And you liked him, so I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Is that why you showed up uninvited to the wake? Did you think I’d be so overcome with emotion that I’d welcome you back like a long-lost friend?”

“I’ve been back in town for a few months, hoping every day to run into you. But never did. I heard about the wake from some guys in town and wanted to see you. That’s all. It was clear that you didn’t feel the same.”

“Apparently, hostility is a sign of grief. Did you know that? The funeral home sent us a handy-dandy pamphlet today on what we can expect over the next year—exhaustion, sleeplessness, headaches, anxiety, anger, and hostility. It’s a winner list. That’s what I felt when I looked up and saw you at the wake: hostility.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? Do you really? I was in love with you, Gray. My mother was dying. I had to drop out of college to care for her. And still, I covered for you in every possible way, with your parents, the law, everyone I knew who said you were trouble. I did crazy things for you. And you got on your motorcycle one day and left. And I never heard from you again.”

“I heard you married Whit.”

“I married Whit to get over you.” Those were words Liza had never said aloud. She was tired. She shouldn’t be having this conversation.

Gray looked genuinely remorseful. “I didn’t know that. I was so into myself, my addiction, I barely registered anyone else. That was wrong.”

Liza softened. “Maggie told me that you’re sober and healthy and restoring your parents’ house. I’m happy for you, Gray, in the sense that I’m happy for anyone who can take back control of their own lives. Please know that. But I’ve moved on in so many ways since you left Southport. I know that sounds stupid because I live three blocks from the house I grew up in. But, believe me, I have moved on.”

“Liza, I understand. I’m not expecting you to welcome me back into your life, like nothing’s happened. Honestly, I wanted to say I’m sorry. And I thought you might like the bowls.”

“The bowls are lovely. But not for the gallery.”

“Keep this one, then, for you. A gift. From an old friend.”

Never once had Liza thought of Gray as an old friend. “Thank you.”

“Well, maybe I’ll see you around.”

Liza shrugged. “It’s a small town.”

As soon as the door shut behind Gray, Liza picked up the bowl and ran her hands over the smooth dark cherry wood. She felt something taped to the bottom of the bowl. It was Gray’s card. She slipped it into her pocket.