“I think he met a woman there,” said Maggie, or as Tricia often called her, Queen of Conspiracies.

“Why would you say that?” Tricia asked.

“Because I think it’s true. Remember that visiting professor from Middlebury that he had that thing with? Nadia something, the intense Russian literature teacher who came to Dad’s birthday dinner a million

years ago. I think they had a Same Time, Next Year situation happening at that Vermont lodge.”

“Really?” Now Liza was intrigued, forgetting about Tricia’s accusation.

“Yes. When I was living here a few months ago, he told some story about sailing on a lake with Nadia and then he clammed up like he wasn’t supposed to say anything, like he’d broken the code,” Maggie explained.

“I’m glad he had someone.”

“I don’t even know what to say to that. Except, I don’t think he took his own life. Is that what you really thought?”

“No. It crossed my mind for a second, only because I never thought he’d go like this. Alone.”

The mosquitos emerged and the sisters headed back to their cars. Liza had decided they would spend the night at her house instead of Willow Lane. “Trust me. It feels like a crime scene. You’ll sleep better at my house.

And Lolly dropped off her signature boeuf bourguignon. She freezes it in bulk for such occasions. We can heat that up.”

“Do you think she dropped off that really good coffee and those blueberry-chia parfaits from The Granola Bar?” Maggie asked. She and Liza’s mother-in-law had a special relationship. Lolly gave her food and vintage clothing items from the seventies and Maggie painted her thank-you cards.

“I’m sure she did,” Liza said and then, because she was a planner, she floated an idea she’d been thinking about for hours. “What do you say we have the wake for Dad at my house? Maybe this Sunday, sort of get out ahead of any other public services and have the send-off Dad would have wanted. You know, it’s easy, I have the drill down. Carol, the caterer, knows my ovens. And she does such a great job at the school board meeting annual dinner, I’d like to give her the gig. I can have the whole thing planned by end of day tomorrow.”

Maggie and Tricia waited a beat to speak, exchanging glances that Liza picked up on.

That kind of collusion between the two of them made her crazy. They had no idea how hard it was to plan a big event, from napkin color to menu to cleanup, she thought. Every Thanksgiving, they’d show up with their assigned dishes, Tricia having bought hers from some fancy shop on the Upper East Side because, apparently, roasting and mashing butternut squash was beneath her. Maggie invariably wore a silk blouse because everybody

knows you can’t wash the turkey pan in a silk blouse. If it weren’t for Liza, Thanksgiving, their mother’s favorite holiday, would consist of frozen peas, store-bought pie, and some hippie quinoa salad that Maggie conjured up.

And here they go again, mocking me because I make things happen. Liza didn’t hold back, absolutely drained from a tough day. “What? What’s wrong with my house? I don’t know why you need to look at each other like that. I know you think I’m a control freak. I’ve heard you whispering in the kitchen at family events. But someone has to think these things through.”

Maggie, only eighteen months younger than Liza and her childhood sparring partner and best friend, held back. She knew that she had the least amount of leverage in this debate. The last thing she wanted was to get stuck with any percent of the catering bill or the flowers or, God knows, the bar bill if all her father’s drinking buddies from the Horseshoe Lounge—

called the Shoe by locals—showed up. She was flat broke and if there was any silver lining to today’s news, it was that some financial relief might be coming from the estate. But she knew better than to say any of that, especially to Liza, so instead, she flashed Tricia an encouraging nod.

Tricia took the bait, like any good lawyer. Tricia would argue anything, and being the younger sister by six years had never stopped her. “Liza, there’s no judgment. We appreciate everything you’ve done today and for the last few years. Everything. But Willow Lane is the place that meant something to Dad, to his friends, to us. It’s fitting for the wake to be here.

It’s only right. We can do this together. And, yes, by all means hire the caterer you trust. But you don’t have to take everything on. We’re here now.

But I do agree that now is better,” Tricia continued, turning the conversation around on a dime, a tactic she used in negotiations, as if point one about location was a settled matter and she could move on to point two, timing.

“If we want to be able to control who attends, we should do it sooner than later. I spoke to the head of the English department today and she said they’d certainly like to do something formal in the fall when school is back in session. And, as you mentioned, I’m sure the Pequot Library will do something in his honor. Though they’ll probably want us to donate money to make it happen, but we’ll get to that once Cap takes us through the will.

Those will both be well-attended, choreographed functions.” Tricia was winding down and looking for the emotional hook to land Liza. “But yes, we should absolutely do something personal here. This event should be for

Dad. And should be fitting of Dad. For family, for his real friends and colleagues. And those guys he lets fish off the dock on Sundays. I do think that’s what Dad would have wanted: a William Sweeney Wake Extravaganza. Remember the celebration we gave Mom? We can top that.”

Liza crumpled at the mention of her mother. She thought of the three of them at the wake, wearing clothes they had found in their mother’s closet, singing “Both Sides Now,” even though Tricia was mortified to perform in front of people. The mourners openly wept. Tricia was right. Of course, the wake should be here at Willow Lane with joy and tears and song and overindulgence, the messiness of memory in its glory. Clearly, she was exhausted, not thinking straight. She was grateful to Tricia for stating the obvious and grateful to Maggie for quelling her usual overreaction and staying silent. If only Whit had come home, but he hadn’t. “Yes, of course.

We’ll do it here. It’s been a long day. We can go over the details in the morning.”

They were getting into their cars when Tricia’s phone pinged. She glanced at it because she always glanced at it. “Well, it’s official. Here’s the New York Times alert.” Tricia read aloud to her sisters, “Acclaimed American Writer William Sweeney Dead at Seventy-Four.” She’d read the rest of the obituary later, when she could focus and be alone. She wanted to savor the accolades; it was all she had to say goodbye.

Liza looked at her sisters as she helped Jack and his failing hips into the back of her Volvo. “We can get through this.”

Chapter 5

“I can say without a doubt that Bill Sweeney would have loved to be here tonight.” The Irish brogue of Patrick Kennerly, a chaplain at Yale Divinity, rang out. “To look out on this sea of faces, to raise a glass, to drink to the people he cherished. Yes, William Sweeney would have stayed long into the night, maybe the last to leave if he left at all. And in the morning, he would have slipped quietly out the back door and let you be with your own thoughts. Just like he did, didn’t he?”

Patrick and Bill had been longtime friends, meeting first during the Greenwich Village days, sparring over philosophy and bonding over darts at McSorley’s. The religion scholar and the novelist then found themselves together at Yale years later and renewed the relationship. Tonight, Patrick said goodbye to his friend. “Now, I’m going to say a prayer and you can either bow your head or you can look straight out at the sea, like Bill would do. . . .”

It was a cool, cloudy night. There would be no “red sky tonight,” the promise of the old sailor’s rhyme, but a salty onshore breeze; the sisters had made sure to schedule the wake for high tide. About a hundred or so family, friends, neighbors, fishing buddies, local shopkeepers, and esteemed colleagues sat in folding chairs out on the lawn of Willow Lane to

“Celebrate the Life and Words of William Sweeney,” as the invitations said.

Unlike a traditional wake, the body of Bill Sweeney was not on the premises, but the spirit surely was. Soon, there would be singing, drinking, dancing, and toasting, but first, there would be crying.

The communal sniffling started when cousin Sean’s band played “Bang the Drum Slowly.” Maggie had picked all the music after talking to Sean,

who was a research biologist by day and a pretty decent singer and fiddle player by night.