Through it all, the sisters danced, laughed, and sang along with the band.

Liza and Tricia made the rounds. They wandered informally through the guests, thanking all for coming, listening to their stories, accepting condolences. Maggie spent most of the night with Gray, engaged alternately in intense conversation or intense flirting. When Tricia caught up with Liza, who was taking a breather on the patio, looking down on the crowd on the temporary dance floor on the lawn, she motioned toward Maggie, who was twirling around barefoot, her black maxi dress slipping off her right shoulder. Gray was with her, breaking out a modified jig to the Irish classic

“I’ll Tell Me Ma.” “She looks pretty broken up,” commented Tricia.

“She’ll be worthless tomorrow and no help on the cleanup,” Liza snapped. “You know I have to get the kids on the camp bus. I can’t do everything.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of her. And when has she ever helped clean anything up? Seriously.” Liza relaxed and they both laughed because they knew Maggie was always the first to duck out when manual labor was required. She’d be long gone by the time they were taking the garbage out.

“She really outdid herself on the sails, though.”

“I know. She’s talented—if she could only . . .” Tricia didn’t bother to finish the sentence. She and Liza had had this same conversation for the last ten years about Maggie. Instead, she changed the subject. “Did you talk to Gray? He’s back, you know. He’s living in his parents’ house on Harbor Road.”

“That explains why that place didn’t go on the market when the Cunninghams moved south,” Liza responded. “I can’t deal tonight. I need a few days and then maybe I can absorb everything. But not him, not tonight.”

“I barely had a chance to say hello. Maggie had him sequestered. Do you want me to gather some further intelligence? I can do some digging.”

“Please don’t,” Liza said. “I have a whole different life now.”

“Where is your whole different life, anyway?” Tricia asked, looking for Whit. She felt he’d been a background figure for most of the last few days, not really rising to the occasion of losing his father-in-law. Her experience

with men was mostly limited to relationships defined as boss or nemesis, thanks to her competitive streak. She saw every guy in college or law school as an academic or athletic rival. Her list of former boyfriends was very short and nothing had been very serious, except a short and inappropriate relationship with a client a few years ago that she’d blocked out for many reasons, not the least of which was her ethical breakdown.

Tricia would never presume to understand marriage, especially Liza’s marriage, but it had surprised Tricia that Whit wasn’t more supportive of his wife or her sisters. The only one Whit seemed to have any empathy for was Jack the dog.

“He took the twins home about an hour ago,” Liza answered as she took a sip of beer, then put the glass down on the stone wall. “Ugh. Don’t let me drink any more of that.” Liza and Tricia stood on a rise watching the dancers in silence for a while, then Liza asked, “Who is that blond girl? I noticed her before. Do we know her?”

The blonde in question was out on the dance floor, moving to the music but not dancing with anyone in particular. She was tall, thin, and fit, her body the product of equal parts genetics and athletics, with her thick blond hair clipped back off her face. She wore elegant black pants and a black silk shirt. She appeared to be about their age. She was sort of attached to the Yalies; Liza had seen her talking to some of the neighbors, too. Liza’s mind was a blank.

Tricia shook her head. “I don’t know. She does look sort of familiar, but I could have met her at some Yale thing. It looks like she’s hearing the Grateful Dead in her head even though Sean is playing the Clancy Brothers.” The sisters laughed, then Tricia turned the topic. “A few people brought plus-ones, even though it wasn’t really that kind of invitation. Like, what is Gray doing here? He must have heard about it from someone, because I certainly didn’t invite him.”

“I know, Tricia. I didn’t think you had,” Liza was done talking about Gray. “Is it me or is the lead singer now barely dressed?”

The band launched into an especially lively version of “Born to Run,”

which got everyone out on the dance floor because nobody can resist the Boss. And the sisters knew that this was the band’s signature last song.

Plus, they’d played every song in their repertoire, including “Come On Eileen,” which they usually only played at weddings.

Maggie abandoned Gray and danced over to grab Tricia and Liza’s hands. “Last song! Tramps like us gotta dance.” And for one last time at Willow Lane, the Sweeney sisters danced.

It was time for the final toast since the last train was heading back into the city in about a half hour. Many of the guests needed to be on that train or they’d be spending the night on the rattan couches in the living room. That didn’t stop Aunt Frannie from stepping up to the microphone because she wanted the last word, like any bossy big sister.

“My brother Bill was a lucky man because he had wonderful women in his life. He had me, his beloved sister.” Liza laughed along with the rest of the crowd. “He had my sainted mother, Bess.” Even Tricia snorted at that line, as Bess Sweeney’s drunken neglect was well documented in a famous essay in Harper’s that became a chapter in My Maeve. “He had Maeve, who was a better wife than he ever deserved and he knew it. And he had his daughters—beautiful Liza, mad Maggie, and clever Trish—who brought us all together for this lovely night. Bill . . .” Frannie said, looking to the heavens, then turning her gaze downward. “. . . Or maybe you’re watching from down there. Wherever you are, Bill, know that the greatest thing you ever created is your girls.” Frannie raised her glass, “To the Sweeney Sisters!”

Liza, Maggie, and Tricia stood side by side, three redheads in a row.

Collectively, the crowd raised their glasses and their voices. “The Sweeney Sisters.” Three glasses of whiskey appeared before them, courtesy of Willem Dafoe, who seemed to have been doling out his own secret stash all night. The sisters accepted the shots, clinked their glasses, and raised them up, as Liza whispered, “To us.” In the distance, the sails glowed and whipped gently in the light breeze.

Chapter 6

“May I offer you a scone? We found them on the front porch this morning, left by some real estate agents who are very sorry for our loss.”

Tricia offered the oversized basket of baked goods to Cap. The basket included a card from the Miller Cromwell Agency, headed by local legend Nan Miller. Nan’s team included Maggie’s high school drama-club nemesis Lisa Jerusalem, so the baked goods created quite a stir when they were discovered. But they provided the carbs necessary to soak up the last of the whiskey.

Cap Richardson had come by Willow Lane to discuss the will. He had waited until after the wake for the business of death. “Mourn first,” he’d said to Tricia, who wanted to wrap the details up a bit sooner so she could get back to work, but Cap had been insistent. “Trust me. I’ve been through this many times with clients, and, of course, you’re more than clients to me.

Have a moment for your father and then you can move on.”

But now, it was time to move on.

The sisters and Cap had seated themselves in the formal dining room, looking out across the lawn to the water. Everything about the room was familiar to Cap—the painted mural, the slipcovered chairs, the Oriental rug

—but the view always delighted him. The water sparkled, hinting at summer. Maggie and Tricia had lasted less than twenty-four hours at Liza’s place. The stress of watching their sister plan the wake and execute the camp packing simultaneously, plus her tendency to play innkeeper with elaborate breakfasts and repeated instructions on how to use the shower in the guest room, was suffocating. Maggie cornered Tricia in the hallway. “I feel like we’ve been taken hostage. Let’s just go back to Willow Lane. I

don’t care if Dad’s ghost is wandering the hallways. Liza is making me crazy.”

Liza wasn’t happy about her sisters abandoning her for their childhood home, but she had to make one more run to Old Navy for green T-shirts and boxers and didn’t have time to argue. “Fine, just make sure you don’t make a mess,” she’d said. It was an unnecessary comment for one grown woman to make to two other grown women, but Maggie and Tricia let it go so they could escape her oppressive regime.

The fact was that Willow Lane was already a mess. It needed a new roof, new electrical, every room painted, and the floors redone—and that was for starters. But the reality that Willow Lane would have to go up for sale and that real estate agents were circling in the water unnerved Liza. “Tricia, I don’t know how you can joke about those scones and selling this house.