“Did he say anything nice about us?”

“He thought we all had really good hair. He wheeled out that St. Patrick’s Day Parade story and made it all about himself, of course. He had disappointed himself by getting swept up in the buoyant atmosphere of New York. I think that’s the word he used, buoyant, instead of public drunkenness run amok. And he claimed if he had dragged us down Madison Avenue to Grand Central instead of Mom that we would have made it in good spirits. It would have been the adventure of a lifetime and he deprived us of that to satisfy his own thirsts—that was the word he used to describe his desires. That kind of bullshit. But he did mention how our hair shone in the harsh spring sunlight.”

“Ironically, we got our hair from Mom,” Maggie said.

“Given that we will have to live with the consequences of the book, I say we sell out. Do we get to fly to the coast and meet with Leo?” Liza asked.

“Please don’t talk like that,” Maggie advised. Her five years in Los Angeles might actually prove to be useful. “You know who I’d be interested in meeting with? Any member of the Buffy cast.”

“Or Alexander Skarsg?rd.”

The sisters were slightly giddy. Tricia, true to form, brought the dose of reality. “I think we should be aware that these things can take time and we may only make significant money if something goes into production.

Residual books sales would also benefit the estate. We’re seeing that already. Since Dad died, his sales have spiked. He would have liked that.

But yes, we should totally meet with Alexander Skarsg?rd.”

“Do you think Dad would be mad at us?” Liza asked, still seeking to please.

“No. I don’t. I feel like it’s a trade-off for this memoir and a way for us to come to terms with a few legacy issues. And, if we’re involved in some way, we can use our judgment on who would best serve the material and we can always bail. Change our minds. I think that Dad’s work may get pushed to the side unless we make him relevant again.”

“Listen to you, ‘best serve the material.’ Is that what your friend, the agent, said?” Maggie asked.

“Yes, I am quoting. Honestly, I think that’s why Dad wrote the memoir he did. It’s sexy, it’s honest, it’s new material, and it’s meant to be provocative. And then he specified that it not be released until after his death. He wanted to stay in the public eye even after he was gone. Movies,

film, television—that’s one way to keep William Sweeney up front and center, where he liked to march. I think we’ll be honoring his wishes, in a weird way.”

“We trust you, Tricia,” Liza said. “Are you sure you want to take this on?

I don’t know anything about these kinds of deals and I know the next year for me will be rough.”

“I’m more than willing to do it. I feel like it’s my duty.”

“I can help if you need me,” Maggie said. Tricia and Liza looked at each other, trying to hide their bemusement over what “help” from Maggie might look like in negotiating film rights. She caught them biting their tongues.

“Again, I’m the only one who’s actually lived in Hollywood.”

“Thanks. That’s a good point, Maggie. If we need juice bar recommendations, you’re our first call.”

“Very funny. Hilarious,” Maggie said, not amused.

“Seriously, though, when it’s appropriate, I will go through all the options with both of you. I want you both to feel comfortable with the decisions we make. The worst thing in the world would be to get into one sister suing another. Let’s try to stay on the same page on this.”

“Could I sue you for money?” Maggie asked.

“No. For control. Which has no monetary value unless exercised correctly,” Tricia answered.

“Forget it, then.”

“Okay, there’s one more big agenda item,” Tricia said, then pulled out her phone to send a quick text. “Serena has some news she wants to share.”

“Oh, can I go first? I’ve been thinking about the real estate piece of all this,” Liza announced, surprising her sisters.

“Are you going to turn your house into a B and B so you can instruct different people every week on how to use the shower?” Maggie said while Tricia snorted.

“Stop it.”

“You deserve that.”

“I don’t want to sell Willow Lane. I want to sell my house and move into Willow Lane,” Liza said, confidently.

“Really?” Maggie and Tricia said at the same time. They were shocked.

Liza’s house was perfect in every way, historic and updated, a showplace.

“Are you sure?”

“I can’t stand to think about this place being torn down for some ginormous faux mansion with a screening room and heated toilet seats. I can’t let that happen. Not because of Dad, more because of Mom. She made this a happy place for us and now we know how difficult that task truly was.

This place is special. Look around. I know you and Cap said we shouldn’t get emotional, that this is our prime asset. But I can’t let this go.”

“Now that we turned in the manuscript, some of the financial pressure is off us. It’s still a lot to take on, Liza. And I thought you loved your house on Westway?”

“I loved what that house represented. How much is that worth now? I spoke to Whit yesterday. With the permission of my attorney, so don’t freak out, Tricia. We’re starting to move toward a dissolution of our marriage and dividing the assets. Whit admitted that he had no intention of coming back to Southport permanently, but he was too chickenshit to tell his own parents. So he told a few friends figuring it would leak out, and it did. The trial separation was a ruse to buy himself time. He was hoping his mother would find out by rumor. This was all about saving face with his mother, not about me and the kids. He was more concerned about his mother’s feelings than mine—which says it all, doesn’t it?”

“I didn’t think that of Whit,” Tricia said, shaking her head.

“Me, either. But his guilt may come in handy. My lawyer is ready to pounce to capitalize on that for the settlement in terms. Whit seemed relieved that I wanted to sell the big house. And, when I told him that I didn’t want the kids to go to prep school, that I wanted them to be closer to home in high school so they wouldn’t turn to self-medicating by abusing ADHD drugs or cutting to deal with the turmoil of their parents’ divorce, he agreed. Mr. St. Paul’s even said he would entertain the idea of the kids going to Fairfield High School. Public school!”

“Sounds like Whit wants to lower his expenses now that he’s on the hook for two households,” Tricia said, more cynical about the new populist Whit than Liza.

“I need to talk to Vivi and Fitz, of course. But I think they would love living here. It would be an adventure. And, I’m going to try to be more relaxed about everything. Maybe I’ll even let them eat on the couches in my presence. I don’t know how a deal would be structured, but I can buy you out of your shares, not both at once, but over time. And I’ll have to work

something out with Serena, too. Maybe you can help me structure a deal, Trish.”

“That brings up some very interesting opportunities, for us and Serena.

I’ll think that through. But you don’t have to buy me out of my share,”

Tricia said. “I’ve been thinking about the boathouse, about how much I’d like a little place like that out here. And how impossible that would be to find—a small, cozy place on the water with a dock and beach access under a million dollars. I’ll stay in as co-owner, if I can have the boathouse. Does that sound reasonable?”

“That would be great. I would love to have you here more. Is this permanent? Or weekends only?”

“Weekends after Labor Day. I mean, I have to go back to work at some point. But, you know, it’s a good halfway spot between Manhattan and New Haven.” Tricia looked at Maggie, who was squealing like a tenth grader.

“Do not make those noises.”

“It would be great for me and the twins,” Liza said. “Plus, that might leave me some money to do a little renovation, not much! Update the bathrooms, paint. I’m not spending one dime in the kitchen.” Tricia and Maggie didn’t buy that last line at all.

“Okay, well, I’m going to take the money,” Maggie announced to no one’s surprise. “As long as I can still use a guest room.”

The sisters discussed the necessary steps—an appraisal, determining the debt load, assessing equity, buying out Maggie’s interest—which prompted Maggie to add, “I don’t know what any of those words mean. All I ask is that you don’t swindle me.”

“Hello, all.” It was Serena, pushing through the screen door. She was in a short dress and sandals, her long legs tanned. Her movements were comfortable, confident, a world away from her body language at the first meeting in Cap’s office. She had a bottle of wine in her hands and she’d grabbed four glasses from the bar area. “How’s everybody?”

“Were you hiding in the kitchen or something? How did you get here so fast?”

“I was waiting in my car for Tricia’s text. It’s a quick drive over.”