Chapter 22

“I have five minutes and I need to tell you something,” Liza said to her sisters in the back office of Sweeney Jones. The gallery doors were set to open in about a half hour, but the mood at the gallery was calm, like the staff had been through this drill dozens of time. Emily, Liza’s longtime assistant gallery manager, and Jenny, her Sunday salesperson and social media whiz, were both in black and moving about the space, seeing to last-minute details. After a brief thunderstorm, the evening sun was streaming through the clouds and the humidity was at what Liza called “Optimum Balmy” in terms of going out at night without a sweater. There would be a good crowd, Liza was sure. Tricia and Maggie had arrived separately, but on time, a family trait, and they were ready to do their part to make the night a success.

Liza looked lovely in a slinky black dress, strappy sandals, and a fresh blowout. She was confident about the show, but that wasn’t what she needed to talk to her sisters about. “Whit and I are separated. It happened a few weeks ago and I didn’t tell you because we agreed not to say anything to anyone over the summer. We wanted to be sure where we were headed.

But, apparently, he doesn’t view it as a trial separation. It’s come to my attention that other people in town know, so you might hear someone say something tonight. I didn’t want you to be blindsided. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, but I couldn’t deal . . .” Her voice trailed off, thick with emotion.

“You don’t have to be sorry. We’re sorry, Liza,” Maggie said. She was dying to blurt out that she’d known something was up and that she’d spotted Liza and Gray making out, which she felt better about now that she knew Whit and Liza were separated, but still not entirely happy about. But

Maggie kept her mouth shut. She wanted to sell that painting tonight.

“You’re amazing to be standing here after everything that’s happened in the last month.”

“Do you need anything from us tonight?” Tricia asked, although she had about eight million other questions, especially about whether Liza had signed a prenup or contacted a lawyer.

“Do me a favor—don’t say anything unkind about Whit to anyone. Not tonight, not ever. Let’s rise above this for the twins’ sake. And don’t say anything to his parents, if they are here. I don’t know if they even know.

Everything will reflect back on Vivi and Fitz, so acknowledge the truth but move on. Got it?”

Both sisters nodded, but Tricia was struggling with the timeline and with Whit. “I don’t understand. How could he tell you one thing and tell everybody else another?”

“I don’t know. Whit is done with me, apparently.”

“What a bastard.” The old Maggie was back. “You’ve always been too good for him. Too pretty, too smart. Much more fun than him. Much more.

You totally improved that Jones family gene pool. I mean, Fitz and Vivi are gorgeous because of you, not chinless Whit.”

Tricia tried to silence Maggie. “Okay, no more rosé for you.”

“It’s true,” Maggie said, holding on to her glass.

“But it’s exactly what she doesn’t want us to say.”

Liza agreed. “I need to get through this and then I can give you the full story later, but not tonight. Maggie, this night should be about you and your beautiful piece. And the fact that we’re all here together.” Again, Liza choked up. “You know, Dad rarely came to these openings because, as he said, I don’t serve real booze. But I think it was actually in deference to me.

He wanted me to have my own moment. He knew he was a distraction.

Maggie, I’m sure he would have been here for you tonight.” All three sisters had tears in their eyes.

“Oh, sisters!” Maggie joked after they collected themselves. “Group hug?”

“It’s too sticky to touch,” Tricia said, fending off Maggie who was coming in, arms outstretched.

“Let’s never change,” Liza said. “Mags, are you ready to be the star? I think you’re going to sell that painting tonight. Did you see the price I put on it?”

“No!”

“Go look.”

Maggie dashed out of the office, leaving Liza and Tricia. Now that Maggie was gone, the two sensible sisters could go a little deeper. The oldest and the youngest sisters connected in a different way when the middle sister wasn’t around to hijack the conversation. Tricia waited a beat, then asked, “I have one question. Did you call a divorce attorney yet?”

“Yes.” Liza was no fool. She had called the day after that dinner at the club with Whit, already feeling like she was too late. Sometimes, it was good to live in the same small town forever because she knew exactly who to call, an old school friend, Michelle Esposito. Michelle was a partner in a family law firm in Stamford now. Liza was always a little scared of Michelle growing up. She had four brothers and the mouth to prove it.

“Michelle Esposito. Remember her? She was that tough girl on my softball team in seventh grade, that one year I played? The one who cussed at the ref and got thrown out for hurling her bat at the opposing pitcher? I hired her. She’s mean, in a good way.”

“Perfect attribute for a divorce lawyer,” Tricia replied. “And is that why you invited Connor and David for the month? So you wouldn’t be lonely?”

“No, so I wouldn’t be weak and send pathetic texts to Whit.”

“Or Gray? I noticed him noticing you last night.”

“Yeah, longer story there. Do me a favor, if he’s here tonight, keep him away from me. He makes me do stupid things.”

“Will do. And I should tell you this, I apologized to Serena. I think she’ll show tonight, but I can’t guarantee it. Her mother arrived last night and I guess they had a tough conversation.”

“I can’t imagine.” Liza shook her head as if she were really trying to picture the scene in her head. “I can’t stop thinking about what we would have said to Dad about all of this, if he hadn’t died. I get furious thinking about it.”

“Me, too. I do a lot of yelling at him on my runs. I call him selfish, indulgent, accuse him of hubris in the highest degree. Then I feel terrible for Serena that he didn’t want to see her. What a coward.”

“I hate to think of him that way. Honestly, I don’t want to read the book,”

Liza confessed.

“Then don’t. You’ve already done so much for him, for us. I’m reading it so you and Maggie don’t have to.”

“Thank you.”

In that moment, Liza looked more vulnerable than Tricia had ever seen her big sister, so she switched the topic to something they could rally around. “You don’t think we have to be nice to Birdie Tucker, do you? I mean, she’s not family, right?”

“Oh, no. She’s not family. We don’t have to be nice to her.” The sisters were united on this. Their definition of family would extend only so far.

“Good. One more thing. I was forced to have a conversation with Lucy Winthrop today and I should tell you that she knows about you and Whit.”

Liza’s head jerked up. “What did she say?”

“Something about you being an asset to the community and Whit was a fool.”

“Well, if that’s the best sentiment I can get out of this mess, I’ll take it.

But seriously, how did she know?”

“I don’t know.” But the Sweeney sisters knew: it was a small town with long tentacles. Not only did everybody know everybody, everybody knew everybody’s prep school roommates, college friends, or summer camp bunkmates. Everybody knew everybody’s debutante escorts, bridesmaids, and birth class pals. They all shared a common acquaintance from some study abroad program in high school or law school class. Amongst a certain stratum in Connecticut, the six degrees of separation was reduced to two: you and the nearest person in boat shoes.

“I can deal with that later. Now, I have to deal with this,” Liza said, pointing out into the gallery, convincing herself more than anyone. “Did Maggie buy Tim all new clothes for tonight? He actually has on pants.”

“She did. FYI, she put it on your credit card.”

The gallery sparkled and buzzed. The sparkle came from the gleaming faces of the patrons, in full summer regalia with freshly showered skin after their day on the beach or the golf course, renewed tans and pink attire on the men with their whale-embroidered khaki shorts and the women in their sensible sheath dresses. Sweeney Jones had attracted the locals and their weekend guests en route to dinner. The locals were eager to show off the sophistication of their little village and the visitors were charmed by the art, which was, in the words of one Manhattanite, “Not terrible. Really pretty good.”