She handed her niece, who was a Liza Mini-Me in her skinny jeans and navy-blue V-neck sweater, a silver wire cuff bracelet with tiny tourmaline beads. It was small enough to fit on Vivi’s slender wrists, but made a statement.

“I love it, Aunt Maggie. You could sell a million of these at my school art fair.”

“That’s because you have sophisticated friends who can afford semiprecious stones,” Maggie said, looking at Liza. “So, she’s staying at the

fancy private school?”

“Probably, but no boarding school for either. Fitz wants outta there. He wants to go someplace with a, quote, real football team.”

“So, Jesuit.”

“If he gets in.”

“Fitzy! Vivi! Come here, Bear. Where’s Jack at?” Tim had taken to yelling upon arrival at Willow Lane. He’d become a favorite with the twins, somewhere between a cool older brother and the fun uncle. The dogs loved him. Even Liza had to admit to Maggie that Tim brightened every event, softening up some of the harsh edges of “right” and “proper” that had developed in the Sweeney family over the years. His commitment to grilling everything had expanded their holiday menu planning. This year, the bird was going on the grill. “Happy Thanksgiving, Liza.” He gave her a quick hug and dropped a case of beer in the bar area. “I’ll put that on ice in a bit. Okay, you guys, I need help unloading the truck and getting the grill going. Who’s with me?” The twins, who on a normal day complained about pouring milk in their cereal, leapt up to help Tim.

Maggie waited for them to leave. “So, I saw the new table arrived in time for Thanksgiving. Was it a special delivery?”

“Stop it.”

“Gray did a beautiful job.”

“He did.”

“And?”

“It’s too soon for anything serious. And this town is too small.”

“Still, you have seen him, right?”

“A couple of times.”

“Am I correct in assuming that now you’ll deign to sell housewares in your gallery?”

“Did he tell you about that?”

“Oh yeah.” Maggie was enjoying the memory.

“Let’s not relive your relationship with . . .” Liza paused, not sure how to describe the role Gray was playing in her life now. Once the summer ended and the kids were back in school, Liza found that her mind wandered to Gray every spare second. She wondered if it was because she was overwhelmed at the thought of starting over with someone new and he was close and familiar. But after running into him at the movies one night and going for coffee afterward, she knew it wasn’t lack of imagination on her

part that made Gray so attractive. It was him. He was full of energy: intellectual, physical, emotional. He could be there for her on every level now if that’s what she wanted. She felt like she regained years of her life every time he wandered into the gallery at the end of the day or opened the door for her at his house. She felt adventurous, thrilled. “Let’s call him Gray for now.”

“Not your boyfriend?”

“In five years, when the twins will go to college, I can date. Whatever that means, in this day and age. But until then, I’d like to keep everything very low-key.” Liza was holding Whit to a similar standard. She didn’t want Savannah, his “work colleague,” to start showing up when Whit had the kids over for vacation, heading off to the master bedroom at the end of the day. Liza thought that would be unpleasant for teenagers and she had to stick to the same standard herself. As her lawyer Michelle had insisted during negotiations, “No overnight guests in the mix until the twins are eighteen.” While Whit seemed fine with that constraint, Liza was pretty sure Savannah, who looked to be about thirty-two from her LinkedIn profile, might not be so thrilled to wait as her biological clock ticked away.

“Five years! Why would you waste what you have left of your thirties?”

Liza thought about last Saturday night with Gray at his house. The twins were both at sleepovers, so she and Gray had twelve hours to themselves.

She thought back to the attention he paid to every part of her body. I am not wasting my thirties, Liza thought. But, she knew part of the physical excitement came from the fact that their relationship was not for public consumption. The secrecy was intoxicating. “You’re not getting any more details out of me.”

“Is he coming today?”

“No, no. It will be a long while before we go public. If ever.” Liza and Maggie made their way toward the kitchen. “Don’t you think it’s going to be weird enough today?”

“It’s going to be smashing. We’re creating the new normal. We’re breaking the constructs of modern society and creating our own infrastructure of love and family,” Maggie said, her voice layered with cynicism.

“I hope you’re right—that our sociology experiment pays off.”

“We have nothing to lose,” Maggie declared, even though Tricia had warned them all that they definitely did have something to lose if this

rollout didn’t create the buzz they expected. “Oh, I brought the two commissions with me and the four ‘guest bathroom’ oils you wanted.”

“Four! Ambitious. Those will sell this weekend. Seriously. I think of them as Southport Stocking Stuffers. Perfect Christmas gifts. You’ve been busy, Mags.”

“And I brought some of the sketches I’ve been working on for the poetry project. You can take a look at them after dinner.”

Maggie and Liza had hatched a plan to publish their mother’s found poetry in a limited-edition book along with paintings created by Maggie.

The poems were rooted in domestic life with references to simple objects like coffee cups and blow-dryers and plenty of commentary on mothers, sisters, and daughters. But the language was vivid, filled with imagery of color and natural elements like water and earth. Maggie was inspired. Liza was excited to oversee the project along with a high-end art press. It would be called Willow Lane. There would also be a less expensive version printed so that Maeve Sweeney’s poems would be available to all. The proceeds would go to fund poetry workshops at local schools and a poet-in-residence program at the library.

Maggie wasn’t too keen on the charity aspect at first, but Liza convinced her by explaining how the value of her original artwork would increase due to the book. Liza finished the guilt trip by adding, “It’s what Mom would have wanted.” Maggie agreed, even though charity was her least favorite activity.

Liza, checking her watch, started to move around the kitchen with purpose. Liza could only feign easy-breezy for so long. She had work to do.

There would be time later to dive into Maggie’s art. “I can’t wait to see what you’ve brought. It’s great to see you so happy and productive.”

The sisters began to organize the kitchen in synchronicity. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but life has been good. I’m happy there in Mill River. I admit, I had a bad attitude in the beginning. But after being here this summer, as great as it was to spend so much time together, I needed someplace with less history, more possibility. And Tim and his brothers think they’ll have the brewpub open by New Year’s Eve. It’s all coming together.”

Tim’s grandmother, the sausage queen of Western Connecticut and Southern Massachusetts, had died twenty years ago and created a trust fund for the four Yablonski brothers—now a banker, a lawyer, a contractor, and a

cook/beer enthusiast. After two decades, the brothers gained access to the money and promptly bought an old grain storage facility in a historic district with all kinds of development incentives. Mill River Brewing Company was born, with Tim and older brother Teddy the contractor running the day-to-day operations. Tim was naming the IPA after Maggie.

Mad Maggie IPA. There would be Tim’s Taco Tuesday, of course. Liza commented when she heard the news, “I didn’t know people named Yablonski had trust funds.”

“Why is Tricia late? She’s not working, is she?”

“No. She and Raj are running the Turkey Trot.”

“Poor Raj.” The annual 5K race had been going on for forty years in Southport, a Thanksgiving tradition. Tricia had reached the podium five times over the years in various age groups, starting at age twelve. She was in it to win it, not burn calories in order to eat more pie.

“I know. He has no idea.”

Maggie made herself a cup of tea, like she had a thousand times. “Are you sad? First Thanksgiving without Dad?”