Tricia paused, then said, “In Which We Discover That Birdie Tucker Is Elspeth and All Our Romantic Notions About Our Mother and Father Die.”

“Oh, don’t tell me that. Now I’m never going to read it. That will kill me.” Maggie used to say dramatic things like that all the time when she was in high school and the family reacted with mockery. Her father called her Sarah Bernhardt and went on about the vapors. They’d all laugh until Maeve insisted they stop, patting Maggie’s hand and telling her to breathe.

But after the family got the call from the hospital in Providence informing them of her overdose, they stopped accusing her of being overly dramatic.

Though it had been a long time and Maggie was more stable now than at age twenty, Liza and Tricia listened more than they laughed.

“If that’s the way you feel, don’t read it. I give you permission to pass on it.”

“I know I’m supposed to be comfortable with the idea of Dad as a flawed human being, but I prefer to think of him as Dad, you know?”

“He did date Dyan Cannon.”

“I knew that. He told me once after Mom died. I didn’t know who she was, so I looked her up. He was very proud of that.”

“Oh, and you were right about the Russian professor! They did have an annual weekend together. A long-running affair.”

“How long running?”

“He’s vague, of course, about the number of years to shield his marital status, but he writes that it continued after she was married. In the book, he calls her Ludmilla, not Nadia, which I’m guessing is some kind of inside

joke because, you know Dad, he liked feminine names for his female characters. He writes that it ‘fed his intellect,’ which is some sort of bullshit justification.”

“Classic Dad. Feminist scholars will have a field day with this book,”

Maggie said, taking a bite of her taco. Then she said, “Birdie as Elspeth.

That’s a disappointment. Now you must feel really bad about Serena.”

“Thanks. I do.” They laughed liked they always did when something hit too close to home emotionally.

Maggie’s phone buzzed and she looked down. It was a text from Liza.

“Well, I guess she’s forgiven me for last night, because now she needs a favor.”

“Neither of us have forgiven you, Maggie. But you know what Mom would say: ‘Let’s not dwell . . .’ What does Liza need? Can I help?”

“Nope, she needs Tim,” Maggie said, then raised her voice a bit. “Tim, do you want to bartend tonight at the gallery opening? Liza’s in a jam.

Twenty-five bucks an hour.”

“Do I actually have to know how to bartend or is it a white wine thing?

Because, like, I don’t know how to make a Singapore Sling or anything.”

“You don’t really need to know how to bartend.”

“I’m in,” Tim said, shaking his long hair like a happy golden retriever.

Maggie responded to Liza with the good news and added a few beverage emojis for fun.

Tricia nodded toward Tim. “How is it he’s even upright? I think he drank all the beers last night.”

“He’s twenty-six, that’s how.”

Tim turned around. “That’s not how. Age has nothing to do with it. It’s the patented Tim Yablonski Hangover Cure. Get up early, drink two cups of coffee, run five miles, take a cold shower, and then eat a meat product that’s heavily salted, followed by electrolyte water. Today, after the run, I dove into the sound and then took a cold shower. Well, we took a cold shower.

That was killer. I feel great.”

Maggie studied the handsome guy standing at the stove who had been kinder to her in the last few weeks then any man in recent memory. “Your last name is Yablonski?”

“You know it, baby.” Tim did a little dance at the stove.

Maggie laughed. “Is that the Yablonski shuffle?” Maggie turned to Tricia, resuming their conversation. “I feel terrible for Serena. She should have had

a chance to talk to Dad. And he wouldn’t see her. He was never going to see her. I don’t think she should ever know that.”

“I agree.”

“It’s Tricia Sweeney. Here to see Serena Tucker.”

The gate opened slowly at the Winthrops’ estate. Tricia had only been on the property a few times, once to interview the congressman for her high school paper, another time to receive a Daughters of the American Revolution scholarship from DAR member Lucy Winthrop, and a third time to attend a fundraiser for the wetlands with her father. She had no idea how they ended up at a charity event for a cause neither of them cared about, but she remembered the food was mediocre and the white wine was warm, a sure sign that Lucy Winthrop didn’t want the party-goers to linger. Today, Tricia was hoping to get in and out without seeing either the congressman or his wife. She drove down the long driveway toward the main house, as directed by the male voice coming out of the intercom.

Lucy Winthrop was standing under the portico, waving her left hand slightly. Apparently, there was to be an audience with the queen before Tricia was permitted to see Serena. Tricia rolled down her window, hoping to keep it short.

But Lucy Winthrop wanted more. “Hello, Tricia dear. Why don’t you park here? We’ll have some iced tea in the solarium and then you can go visit Serena. Ten minutes is all I need.”

Tricia acquiesced, somewhat curious about what Mrs. Winthrop had to say, even though the cool summer day was better suited to coffee than iced tea. “Sounds lovely.”

Once inside, seated in the wicker chairs, Lucy started in. “First, let me say how very sorry I am about your father. I have spoken to Deke and he’s going to propose some sort of official commendation the next time Congress is in session. Your father was a favorite constituent and a great talent. He’ll be missed here in Southport and around the world. I hope that gives you comfort,” the congressman’s wife said, using her “I speak for him” tone of voice. She was sitting in a heavy wicker chair upholstered in a muted coral fabric, the kind of indoor/outdoor furniture you would never put outside. The sunroom was filled with antique touches like French cachepots, framed Audubon prints, and a stunning Oriental rug. A half dozen large orchids and standing planters of ferns gave the room an exotic

feel. Lucy Winthrop looked comfortable and in control as she prepared to serve Tricia.

“Thank you for the wonderful gesture. That will be meaningful.” Tricia imagined hanging the framed commendation up in her office. The partners would like it, Don Donaldson especially. Maybe she’d even go to DC to watch the moment in person, she thought, realizing that after a lifetime of being present at ceremonies and galas in her father’s honor that there would be only a handful of such obligations left.

Lucy poured out two tall glasses of iced tea and added a sliver of lemon with silver tongs. “By the looks of you, you don’t take sugar. You’re very thin, my dear. Here you are.” Tricia accepted the drink while Lucy continued, “I assume you got my condolence card. I haven’t received anything in return but there’s no rush.”

The custom of forcing grieving families to send thank-you cards for sympathy cards was something Tricia would never understand. But fortunately, Liza did, so she was sure an appropriate acknowledgment would be forthcoming. “You’re very kind to think of us. It was all so sudden, but I know that Liza is working through the thank-yous. She’s very conscientious. We’ve all had tasks to do since my father’s death.” There was only so far Tricia would go to placate Lucy Winthrop.

“Liza’s a good girl. She is a wonderful asset to our community. I don’t know what Whit is thinking. But that’s a conversation for another time.”

It would have to be because Tricia had no idea how to respond. Was Maggie right again that something was up with Whit and Liza? Tricia went for a vague response. “Yes. We’re all focused on the art opening tonight and then making a joyful homecoming for Vivi and Fitz when camp ends.

That’s what sisters are for.”

“Aren’t you a great support system? I hope my girls can rally together if they ever face a real challenge,” Lucy said, implying that the lives of her daughters, Delaney and Reagan Winthrop, had been a breeze up until now, even though Tricia suspected the elder had an eating disorder and the younger married for status rather than love and spent more time with her horses than her husband. At least that’s what her Southport friends implied when they got together over the holidays to catch up. “Speaking of sisters, I know the truth about Serena. From Serena’s lips and from Birdie’s. She’s here now.”

“Serena?”

“Well, yes, Serena is here but I meant Birdie. She arrived yesterday to talk with Serena.” Lucy Winthrop’s voice had the tone of a woman feigning sympathy and dying to dish with one tiny push from Tricia.

“I see. About what, I wonder?” Tricia knew what was happening. She proceeded with caution.