“About the whole . . . you know. They talked all morning and through lunch. According to Birdie, it was emotional and exhausting. Birdie is lying down and I imagine Serena is doing the same.”

“Sounds like it was a difficult conversation.” Tricia had heard enough, from Lucy Winthrop anyway. She wasn’t giving the world-class gossip any more encouragement.

“Aren’t you curious about the details?”

“Curious is the wrong word. I’m interested because it involves my family as well, but I’ll let Serena decide when and if she wants to tell us about the conversation. It’s really her decision, her life.”

“I can see why Cap admires you so much. You’ve always had a good head on your shoulders, even as a teenager. You went through a lot with great reserve. So, I ask you this, please consider all the people in this story before you make any announcements. As a congressman’s wife, I understand what it’s like to put public perception first. I’ve lived with that restriction for decades. There are real people to consider and, of course, the reputation of the town. Be thoughtful.”

In a flash, Tricia felt the generational chasm open. There were no heroes in this story. Both William Sweeney and Birdie Tucker had served their own needs first and foremost, hiding the truth from each other, their spouses, and their daughter. Tricia heard Maggie’s voice in her head questioning why everything needed to be a secret. Now, Lucy Winthrop was suggesting that the next generation play along, so nobody, including “the town,” got damaged. What a crock. “Mrs. Winthrop, I believe that everybody has a right to tell their own truth. Or not. You forget, my sisters and I are the daughters of two storytellers—one in prose; one in poetry. We revere stories. And Serena does have a tale to tell.”

As soon as Tricia said it out loud, she knew she believed it. Her father’s memoir. Maggie’s speech last night. The book she was sure Serena was working on. Everyone had a truth. “I’m going to knock on Serena’s door now. Thank you for the iced tea. Perhaps we’ll see you at the gallery opening tonight. My sister Maggie will be debuting a stunning piece

painted right here in Southport. The show is called Still Life with Sunflowers. There’s a period after ‘Still’ and ‘Life.’ Get it?” Tricia said as she stood up.

Oh, Lucy Winthrop got it. The conversation was over. Lucy Winthrop, used to dining with presidents and billionaires and celebrity environmental activists, would surely turn down the invitation. She wasn’t playing second fiddle to a bunch of sunflowers.

Lucy Winthrop watched Tricia walk away like she had watched Serena walk away last night. How had she never noticed the resemblance? Two peas in a pod.

“What I said at the house was petty. I was speaking about legal standing, but I understand that it didn’t sound that way. I’m sorry. I apologize for the hurt I caused,” Tricia declared, standing at the door of the carriage house, using the words she tried out with Raj. She was good with straightforward, but stymied by emotional depth. She felt like she walked the line with her apology, sincere and heartfelt. She noticed Serena looked foggy. “Did I wake you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry for that, too.” Serena was wearing the sort of lounge pajamas people wore in TV shows, a bit dressy for a midday nap, Tricia thought.

“I needed to get up.”

“Are you coming to the opening? Liza will kill me if you’re not there.

She said she couldn’t have gotten the show up and the word out without you. She would love to have you there. Plus, you could just wear those fancy PJs.”

“My mother gave them to me. A silk peace offering after four decades of deception.” The two women laughed. Then Serena asked, “Is that why you’re here? To get me to the gallery opening?”

“Not entirely. I read our father’s book this morning.”

Our father. Tricia had said it, finally. Serena waved her into the living room. “I’m going to make a coffee. Do you want an espresso?”

“Yes!” Tricia nodded. “I make one every afternoon at the office.”

“I do, too.” Serena moved into the open kitchen and fired up the espresso maker. “This is about the only thing I know how to make.”

“I have no kitchen skills, either. It’s why I’m assigned wine at every family event. Liza used to try to make me cook squash and I couldn’t

handle it.”

“Maybe after-dinner coffee will be my assignment,” Serena said, setting down a steaming cup in front of Tricia.

“Yes.” Tricia took a sip. “So, should we talk about what your mother told you and what my father’s book told me?”

“I think we should.”

“Did you know your mother was Elspeth?”

Serena swallowed the espresso. “I found out this morning in my conversation with her. How did you know?”

“I found out this morning after reading it in our father’s memoir.”

“It’s in there?”

Tricia nodded. “His side of the story anyway. You can read it and see if it matches hers. It looks like it was a real love story.”

“That’s how my mother described it. At least when they first met. The second time around, not so much.”

“That’s good to know. My father doesn’t say much about the second time around. So, I’m going to carry that with me to help me work out my feelings of anger on behalf of my mother. But now you can name the book you’re not writing Elspeth’s Daughter.”

“That’s a pretty good title.”

“I agree.” Tricia laughed.

“I thought my mother was privileged to have been immortalized in Million Zillion, but inspiring two William Sweeney characters is quite an honor.”

“Elspeth and Wren.” Serena seemed surprised that Tricia understood the reference. No one was going to beat Tricia at Bill Sweeney Jeopardy! “I’ve been doing my research, too.”

“I’m sure you have.”

“Serena, this situation is a mess. Our father’s death didn’t make it any simpler. Raj said to me today that there is no road map for this. I have to work through a lot of stuff right now. You’re part of that stuff. As my sisters will tell you, I’m sure I’ll underwhelm you with my emotional intelligence.

But I’m trying to say that I’ll try to be a part of your life if that’s what you want and I’m hoping you’ll let me.”

“My mother asked me today if I would have cared the same if I found out my father was a random sperm donor. I said I would have cared either way, but I don’t know if that’s entirely true. My motives may not have been pure.

Being William Sweeney’s daughter has a certain glamour to it that being donor #4798’s daughter doesn’t have. I need to work through my stunted emotional intelligence, too.”

“Fair enough. We don’t have to figure this all out today,” Tricia said.

“That’s true.”

“But what I do know is that I respect your right to do whatever you wish with your story. You don’t owe us anything, Serena, except maybe a heads-up when the book you’re not writing comes out. And Maggie will insist on a very flattering photo of her on the book jacket, so you’ll have to shell out for her hair and makeup at the shoot.”

Serena studied Tricia. “When I came to the wake, I was looking for something, some connection to your family. I assumed it would be through your father, but seeing you all together again reminded me of the envy I felt when we were kids and you’d walk down the lane together laughing and singing. You were the same twenty years later. I see what you do for each other—you cover for each other. I haven’t had that in my life. I’ve been out there on my own. No one to provide coverage. It’s a new concept to me.”

“I guess you’re right. I never thought of it like that, but that’s what ends up happening. One of us is always having a crap year or decade and the others step in. You might want to take some time to decide whether you want to be part of that in perpetuity.” Tricia looked at her watch. She had to get moving. “I have to go. Liza needs our help at the gallery. I do hope you swing by. It would mean a lot to Liza and so it would mean a lot to me.”

“I’ll see.”

“Oh, I asked your landlord, Lucy Winthrop, too. I think she was appalled to get a verbal invitation and not a handwritten note on Tiffany stationery.

Good to have the old guard still around to keep us in our places, right?”

Serena almost made a joke about her mother being ready to pass judgment at the drop of a hat, but realized that might be premature. Finding a spot for Serena in the Sweeney family was one thing. Finding a spot for Birdie and Mitch Tucker might be a bridge too far.