She heard more laughter from the kitchen and stopped short. She couldn’t face the people in that room right now; she couldn’t face anyone. David and

Connor could find their own way home. She went to open the library door to get her copy of the manuscript. She’d already decided she wasn’t going to pick it up until after the opening. Now, after a double whammy of disappointments by the men in her life, Liza wasn’t sure she wanted to read it at all. For some reason, the library door was locked. Probably Tricia hunkered down and halfway through the book by now, determined to beat Serena to the end, Liza thought. Fine, let her be the first to read it.

Like her father had so many times, Liza slipped out without a proper goodbye, taking the dogs and a flashlight. She’d walk home alone.

“I’m pretty drunk. Can I crash here?” Tim slurred in Maggie’s general direction as she wandered through the living room looking for the last dirty dishes to collect. He was propped up against a wingback chair in the corner, barely standing. “Your friends brought all that expensive beer. I guess I had too many.”

Maggie looked at Tim, who was listing to the left. “Ya think?”

“C’mon, Mags. I did a good job with the tri-tip.” He started to lurch toward her like he was making a move.

Liza was right. He is a child. “You are definitely not driving, so yes, you can crash here. There is a small guest room down the hall. It’s perfect for bed spins. You can touch both walls from the mattress,” Maggie spoke with authority. She’d spent some nights in the guest room back in the day. “Head that way—I’ll bring you a gallon of water and something for your hangover.”

“Is that all you’re going to bring me?” Tim said hopefully, tripping over an ottoman.

“Yes.” Of that, Maggie was sure.

Tim saluted her and stumbled down the hallway toward the guest room at the far end of the house. Maggie went off to get the water and aspirin when movement on the porch caught her eye. It was Liza and Gray, kissing. She froze. She felt guilty and furious at the same time.

Maggie had invited Gray to the party to tweak Liza a little bit and she’d spent the night flirting with Tim to tweak Gray a little bit. Apparently, neither had noticed her efforts at all.

Just then Tim called from down the hall, “Hey, is there any lobster left?”

“Shut up,” Maggie yelled in reply and shuffled upstairs to her childhood bedroom alone, forgetting all about Tim’s water and aspirin.

Chapter 20

“Do you want some coffee?” Serena asked her mother, pouring a second cup into the Wellesley mug, a subversive act that boosted her courage.

“No, thank you. I’ve had enough.”

Last night, when Serena returned from the gut punch that was the Sweeney’s Fourth of July party, she found her mother and Lucy Winthrop sitting in the living room enjoying a final glass of wine while the congressman polished off a brandy. Her mother looked defiant, in navy blue and white with a sparkling red cardinal on her lapel, one of the many bird pins that Birdie Tucker had collected over the years. She greeted Serena with a pretentious double cheek kiss and then quickly suggested they catch up in the morning, clearly not wanting a scene in front of Lucy and Deke, or anyone, really. There would be no scenes in front of anyone ever, if Birdie Tucker had her way.

But after what had transpired at Willow Lane, Serena was done with civility over truth. She was done with discretion and she was done with deferring to those around her. Instead of shuffling off to bed and waiting her turn, Serena asked, “I assume the fact that you’re here alone means you told Dad that William Sweeney was my biological father. Did you?”

Deke Winthrop whipped his head back and forth from Serena to Birdie to Lucy, while Lucy Winthrop put her finger to her lips to keep her clueless husband quiet. “Serena, dear, let your mother settle in. You can discuss everything in the morning. When you’re both rested. Isn’t that right, Birdie?”

Clearly, this two-on-one strategy had been discussed in advance. Her mother didn’t lose a beat. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Lucy. That’s a

wonderful idea. Don’t you think so, Serena?”

“Nothing about the last six months has been wonderful,” Serena said, pouring herself a brandy. “But sure, we can put off discussing the fact that you slept with the man next door and then left me in the dark for thirty-eight years. Please come to the guest house at nine.” And with that, she walked out the side door with the crystal brandy snifter and her head held high.

I’m going to write that book, Serena thought as she headed toward the carriage house, knowing for the first time in six months the best course of action.

Her mother, though, didn’t appear as confident in the morning light. She was in a Ralph Lauren navy track suit that could have been from this season or 1994, so impressive was Birdie’s clothing-preservation program. (Serena referred to her mother’s closet as “a Ralph Lauren Museum.”) She was wearing Tretorns and her highlighted blond hair was a little flatter than last night, the top pulled back in tortoiseshell clips. Birdie had discovered sunscreen early enough to prevent the full leather face that other tennis players of her generation experienced, but her sixty-something décolletage had paid the price for all those sets in the sun. She was makeup free except for a swipe of lip gloss. She could have used some mascara.

Serena herself was exhausted. She’d had a terrible night’s sleep and it was all she could do not to turn the light on and start in on Snap. But, before she read Bill Sweeney’s interpretation of events, she wanted to hear her mother’s story. She felt like she owed her mother that.

“Let’s go sit in the living room. You can tell me how Dad reacted.” As Serena walked over to the couch, she flipped on the recording device on her phone. She would need it for her book.

“I’m recording this.”

“Oh, am I a suspect now?”

“I’m not the law, Mom. I’m a journalist. It’s for my records.”

“Whatever you say. You’ve certainly been treating me like some kind of criminal, cutting me out of your life.”

Serena’s patience with her mother was done. “What are you here to say?”

Birdie sat up straighter in her chair, as if she thought she were on camera.

“As you suspected, my presence here does mean that I informed your father about your DNA test.”

“That’s a roundabout way to say it, Mom. Isn’t this about your infidelity, not my DNA test?”

“Oh, stop it, Serena. Don’t get precious with me.” Birdie Tucker never liked being corrected, especially by her daughter. She had used the same tone when Serena was a teenager and started pushing back during dinner table discussions about politics or science or history when her mother was careless with the facts to prove a point or Serena had a different opinion than her parents. While Birdie and Mitch Tucker were happy to pay for their daughter’s excellent education, actually using it at the dinner table was discouraged. “Yes, I told your father that I had a relationship with William Sweeney and that William Sweeney is your biological father. I did as you asked.”

“Again, this is not about me. Mom. It’s about your behavior. What did Dad say?”

“Some of that is private.”

“I think it’s your turn not to be precious, Mom.”

Birdie’s edge was slipping away. This was a conversation Serena had run in her head for months. She was ready. “Your father was not entirely surprised. He said he had always wondered why I only got pregnant once after many years of trying to have other children, both before you were born and after. And he said that he needed some time to work out his feelings for me, but it didn’t change his feelings for you.” There was a catch in Birdie’s voice. “He is honored to be your father.”

The last line hit Serena hard. Mitch Tucker was a decent man, even if he wasn’t the most demonstrative or dynamic man. Serena had no doubt that he meant what he said. “And how did you leave it with him?”

“Your father and I will be fine. We’ve been married long enough to know neither of us is perfect. As for you, your father said that you should call him after we talk. He expressed his sympathy to you and his anger at me, for upending your life like this. He said that it must be particularly hard for someone like you whose life’s work was to uncover the truth.”

Unlike her mother, her father had admired Serena’s career and felt like she was fighting the good fight, as long as she didn’t come down too hard on the Bushes or bring up the scandals of the Reagan administration. Serena appreciated that her father understood what no one else had expressed. “I’ll call him.”

“So, now, what do you want to know?”