Liza looked between Tricia and Serena. “We’re going to have to watch you two.”

“Wait until you hear Serena’s news,” Tricia said, then turning to Serena, she teased, “And, we have a proposition for you.”

Serena twisted off the cap and poured the wine into the four glasses. Each sister took one and they raised their glasses to a toast. Maggie found the right words. “To us.”

Chapter 25

Thanksgiving

Four Months Later

Liza was up early, because she wanted to get a few tasks done before her guests arrived at Willow Lane. In years past, her goal would have been to accomplish nearly one hundred percent of the to-do list prior to the turkey coming out of the oven, so that her family could be both impressed and a little bit demoralized by her style and efficiency. This year, everything about Thanksgiving felt different. The setting, the food, the dress code, and the collection of faces around the table.

Thanksgiving 2.0 was what Liza had been calling it in her emails to guests, not nearly as detailed or demanding as in years past. This Thanksgiving is the start of new traditions, Liza thought, but it’s still Thanksgiving. I’m not letting the whole operation sink to paper napkins and takeout turkey from Whole Foods.

Vivi and Fitz were still asleep upstairs, or at least in their rooms under the covers, scrolling through social media on their phones. After Liza and Whit told the twins about the split, they took them to the Apple store so they could each get new phones. It was an emotionally cheap way to soften the blow that their parents were divorcing, but Liza had come to accept that a certain percentage of modern parenting was transactional. She felt like she’d done a pretty fine job with the nontransactional portion of the fallout.

She had really been there for Vivi and Fitz in a way she wasn’t before. Not having a husband or a father to care for had freed up Liza’s time and her mind. Not that single parenthood was a picnic, but she thought back to

Whit’s accusation about her nonstop worrying for fifteen years. She had expended enormous energy caring for other people and shaping other people’s perceptions. Since moving to Willow Lane, she limited her care to Vivi, Fitz, and herself. The “other people” in her life could manage themselves.

Now, there was more cooking in the house, more hanging out in the kitchen with the kids, more Monopoly after dinner, and less of the “resume-building” activities that had clogged their family schedule in the past. Signs of rebellion had popped up lately. Vivi announced she was a vegan, which Liza thought of as the most palatable form of self-harm, and Fitz made it clear that getting him a car at sixteen would go a long way toward making up for the divorce. Liza and Whit agreed. Fitz’s math grades had dipped and Vivi was making a half-effort in Spanish, but instead of rushing in with high-priced tutors, Liza left the extra help to the study center at school. One mother expressed concern that Liza’s kids weren’t attending PSAT prep class on Saturday mornings like the rest of the class, telling Liza, “Those tests don’t take themselves. I hope Vivi and Fitz don’t get shut out of the top-tier prep schools. Or colleges. No one wants to pay that money for second tier.”

Liza thought of Vivi and Fitz, who’d been schooled by their grandfather during those afternoon sails on how to read carefully and connect the dots between literature and life, how to tell a story with a beginning, middle, and punchline. Liza said, “I know my children will be fine, no matter where they end up.”

The house on Westway sold quickly in a bidding war. Her agent had priced the house well to attract multiple offers. The new owners, transplants from Southern California, even offered to buy the furniture and artwork, explaining, “All our midcentury modern furniture is wrong for this part of the world.” It made the move seamless and less sad somehow, like a new family would be stepping in to inhabit the house that Liza had worked so hard to make a home.

Liza positioned the move to Willow Lane as an adventure and Vivi, in particular, had loved picking out the paint colors for her new room, tagging along with her to buy a few fill-in furnishings, picking out cheap fun lamps for the dining room. Liza told Vivi all about Maeve’s “shabby and chic before Shabby Chic was chic” aesthetic and Vivi embraced the idea of the grandmother she’d never met. One day, when Lolly, who in fact had chosen

Liza and the twins in the divorce over her own son with whom she was

“tremendously disappointed,” came by to drop off apple butter and muffins, Liza heard Vivi tell her, “My grandmother Maeve had all these things called slipcovers. We’re getting some for our couches.”

Fitz was too busy growing to care about a lot more than his next meal.

He’d hit his growth spurt, shooting up five inches over the summer, a sprint so fast he had stretch marks on his back. He was eating four to five meals a day and resisting showers, but Liza tried to give him space. He missed his father, for sure, and she knew repercussions might come along down the line, but for now, she tried Big Love over Big Worry. Her personal mantra had become “Stop Nagging.” She felt like the bulk of her conversation with her children for the last ten years was nagging about doing homework, getting to tutoring or dance class on time, and clearing their dishes. She wanted to get away from the all-nag, all-the-time lifestyle; at least, that’s what her therapist suggested. It killed her to keep quiet, but Liza was trying.

So far, Vivi and Fitz were coping.

It helped that Julia Ruiz had returned to Willow Lane, working three days a week to keep the family on track and keep an eye on the twins while Liza was at the gallery. She had never really wanted to find another employment situation—too much effort to get to know a whole new household, a whole new set of “crazy white people,” as she told her own sons. She was happy to be back with the Sweeneys. Her presence was like a weighted blanket to Liza, calming and stress-reducing. Lolly had picked up Julia’s extra two days during the week, even though there was rarely a pillow out of place at her home. She felt like it was the least she could do to make up for her son’s behavior. For her part, Julia enjoyed spending quiet afternoons at Miss Lolly’s ironing sheets and napkins or running to Stop & Shop for skim milk.

Whit was flying back home two weekends a month. Before Liza and the kids moved to Willow Lane, he was staying in the guest room at the house on Westway, the two adults interacting with extreme accommodation, putting their best faces forward for family and friends. Liza wanted nothing more than a good divorce, but she knew normalized relations with Whit would have to wait until after the papers were signed, as they were still negotiating the custody agreement. She spent most of the weekends working at the gallery while Whit shuttled the children to sports or dance or birthday parties. But when Liza and the kids moved to Willow Lane, a

smaller house where Whit had never felt comfortable, he rented a modest condo nearby instead of occupying the guest room. The kids had no interest in ever sleeping at the condo, but it saved Whit from having to bunk in with his parents.

Liza finished setting the table in the dining room. Her one indulgence in the move to Willow Lane was a beautiful new extended dining room table in blackened oak that would seat twelve on the matching benches. She ran her hands along the smooth wood. She’d decorated it with a rustic flax-colored runner, replaced the polished silver of years past with everyday flatware, and the linen napkins were pumpkin, instead of traditional white.

Lolly had dropped off several beautiful low arrangements of bittersweet in pewter vases and a bag of pressed and shellacked fall leaves for Liza to scatter on the table. The result pleased Liza.

She was about to set the place cards around the table when she stopped herself. Someone else could put the place cards around the table this year.

“Hello, we’re here.”

“You’re early.”

“Tim wanted to make sure the grill was all good to go and he had plenty of time to cook the turkey. You look gorgeous. What’s happening with your hair? I like it.” Maggie’s arms were full of pie and cider but she gave Liza a hug. She handed Fitz the pie, saying, “This is my first attempt at apple pie from scratch. I’m counting on you to like it, Fitz.”

“I will, Aunt Maggie. Can I have a piece now? I’m starving.”

Maggie looked to Liza. To her surprise, Liza okayed the pie. “Sure, but don’t eat the whole pie. Have some milk, too. That will hold you over.”

“Vivi, I made this for you. I’m taking a jewelry-making workshop at the Arts Collective in Mill River. The teacher is this super-talented designer who moved to town from Brooklyn. Is this rubbish? Or would you wear it?”