by Lian Dolan
Liza was hurt. “This isn’t crap. It’s memories. And I don’t think four mugs are going to engulf the house in clutter.”
“First, it’s the mugs, Liza, then it will be everything. Like it always has been with your family.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that no matter what I ask, you choose your father first. I specifically said, I didn’t want all that crap here and yet, here it is.”
“It’s four mugs.”
“And next it will be his desk. Then his favorite chair. Then all those old, dusty posters of all those dead writers.”
Liza assumed Whit was talking about the beautiful hand-drawn quotes from Joyce, Beckett, and Synge that her father had collected on his many trips to Ireland. She loved those pieces. She had tagged them at Willow Lane with her personal Post-its. She thought that Fitz would like to have them one day when he went to college and realized exactly who his grandfather was. “Those are valuable. And meaningful.”
“See what I mean?”
“What about Jack? Should I drop him off at the pound tomorrow? Is that the kind of crap you mean?”
“Of course not. Jack is a great dog,” Whit said firmly. But then he added, “My point is that I don’t really want to be surrounded by your father every minute for the rest of my life.”
“What are you talking about? My father was decent to you. He . . .” She hesitated because even Liza knew love was the wrong word. “. . . admired you.”
“He tolerated me. For fifteen years, he tolerated me. And it was clear, he felt I was never good enough for you. Or for him. I’m sorry if I prefer John Grisham to his navel-gazing literary bullshit.”
“Wow. How do you really feel, Whit? I mean, maybe you could have let me know your bitterness and resentment before he died. Because now, when I’m sad and exhausted and in emotional overdrive, you’ve added guilt. Do you want me to feel awful that I made you suffer through all those horrible family dinners, where my father, the Presidential Medal of Freedom honoree, made you feel inadequate?”
“See what I mean?”
“My point is that he was brighter than all of us. Than me, than you, than almost everybody he interacted with. He wasn’t your average dad. My God, I would think after all these years, you’d get that. We are average, maybe above average. But he wasn’t. He was exceptional.”
“Liza, I have watched you spend every minute of the last fifteen years worried about something—my blood pressure, our kids’ standardized test scores, your sister’s love life. But mainly, your father, every day. Every damn day. He’s dominated our lives and I’ve put up with it, all of the shitshow that was Bill Sweeney. But now he’s gone and I don’t want his fucking mugs in my house.” Whit picked up the Trinity mug like he was going to smash it against the wall, but lowered his arm when Jack began to whimper. “I’m sorry.”
It wasn’t clear to whom Whit was apologizing: to Liza or to Jack.
“Is that why you came home? To tell me how much you hated my father?”
“I didn’t hate him. But I didn’t idolize him.” Whit stood in front of the corkboard wall filled with family photos and mementos. The twins at Halloween when they were toddlers dressed up as bread and butter. Tickets to the US Open at Shinnecock. Liza and Whit in Bermuda for their tenth anniversary. The big family photo from last Thanksgiving. All that mattered on one corkboard. He took another slug of his Scotch. “I’ve been asked to stay in Durham. To run the company, at least for one year. To be the interim CEO. And I’ve said yes.”
Liza needed a moment to process all the words Whit said in such a rush. Durham. Year. Interim CEO. Yes. “Without talking to me?”
“You had a lot going on. And really, there was nothing to discuss. I need this, for my career and, frankly, for my sanity. I need to be away from all this for a while.”
“All this? Your wife and kids?”
“Without distraction. I need to focus on work. And from what you’ve told me, this business with the house and the estate will take a while to settle. You’ll be fully engulfed in all that drama.”
“Oh, and don’t forget the surprise sister that showed up. Yeah, why would you want to support me through the next few months? It’ll be smooth sailing.”
“I support you. But I’m not going to let this opportunity for me slip by because your family is going through its usual upheaval. I can’t be a part of that drama anymore. Everything I warned you about has happened—the debt, the unfinished business, the messy relationships. I can’t deal with it anymore.”
“And Vivi and Fitz? Are they flotsam and jetsam?”
“Of course not. You know that. But they’re at camp now and in the fall, they have school and all their activities. I barely see them because they have such busy schedules. Then they’ll be off to prep school. My work will give them every opportunity in the future.”
“Oh, there it is. Your standard line that your devotion to work is for everyone else’s benefit.”
“You’ve certainly benefited from my work,” he snapped back, the equilibrium regained. “They can come to Durham in August and stay with me.”
Her brain started to spin out of control, thinking about all the wrong things, like the club tennis championships in August the twins always played in and the annual slog to finish the summer reading before the start of school. Was Whit going to supervise that while he was in Durham, running a business and living out of a corporate apartment? Then, the flash went off. “You have someone else. This isn’t a career move. You’re seeing somebody.”
“It’s not what you think. It’s nothing yet.”
“Yet? Are you casually dating while we’re married?” Her raised voice made the dogs slink out of the room. “That must be fun, while I’m here at home raising our children.”
“Please, snippy isn’t your style, Liza.” Whit valued maturity.
“I can’t believe it.” Which was true. Liza had never suspected Whit of cheating on his marriage vows. It was the vow part Liza thought he’d uphold, not the marriage part. Whit believed in his good word more than he believed in the myth of melding two into one. He wasn’t sentimental, but he was honorable. “Are we separating, then? Is this what’s happening? You’re using the excuse of my father’s death to pause our marriage?”
“The timing is coincidental. I have an opportunity in Durham and, unfortunately, I needed to commit right away, so I did. This is for me and my career.”
“And I’m supposed to hold down the fort here with the kids, my business, this house and the estate, and, oh yeah, grief?”
“Liza, I’ve provided a nice life for you, a very nice life. You have the resources to hire all the help you need to manage everything you think you have to manage on your own. Maybe you’ll finally delegate some of the responsibilities and do the work you need to do on yourself.”
“Look at you, Mr. Life Coach. Thanks for the input. Super helpful. Who’d you steal that from? The honey?”
“Don’t call her that.”
“What is she, then? A girlfriend? A friend with benefits? A colleague?” Whit looked up. “I see. She’s a colleague. Because I never understood the importance of what you do, isn’t that right?”
“I would call her someone who cares about me and listens to me.”
That stung Liza more deeply than if Whit had said she was great in bed or had the perfect ass, both areas in which Liza suspected she fell short. Had Liza’s emotional well-being not been so depleted from the last ten days, maybe she would have put up more of a fight, but she couldn’t muster her anger. She was too tired. Now she felt old. “I see that you’ve clearly made a few other decisions on your own besides whether to take the job. Now, I need time. I feel like you owe me that, at least. I want to keep this arrangement between us, until I can sort a few things out and until the kids get through eighth grade and the prep school admissions process. I don’t want this to tank their grades. At least not this year.”
“That seems fair.”
�
��No telling the kids or my sisters or our friends. And please, don’t tell your parents. If, when we come to a permanent decision, you have to be the one to tell your mother. I can’t bear to disappoint her.”
Whit was contrite. “Agreed.”
Liza picked up her drink and headed toward the back staircase. There was nothing in the fridge except the remains of Lolly’s boeuf bourguignon. She couldn’t eat that for one more night. “I made dinner reservations at the club. I thought . . .” What? She thought they might reconnect after everything, enjoy a civilized adult dinner where she could let her hair down a bit with her husband, after keeping up appearances for everyone else. Oh, well. “Never mind what I thought. We might as well change and head over there. I’ll bring my calendar and we can work out the logistics of all this.” Fifteen years of marriage reduced to marks on the school calendar that Liza used to organize her life.
Whit poured another Scotch and followed her upstairs. They both understood what had happened: Whit had won.
Serena pulled the Range Rover onto the Winthrop property. The drive from DC had taken over six hours and she was beat. The driveway split: the guesthouse, a renovated stone carriage house, was off to the left, and the main house, an enormous waterfront gem from the early 1900s, was off to the right. She was glad you couldn’t see the main house from her place. She’d be able to come and go with relative freedom. Though Lucy Winthrop was generous and charming, she was a talker. A conversation with her every day was a steep price to pay for a free summer rental. Serena had preferred to plunk down the going rate for the place, but Mrs. Winthrop, a dear friend of her mother’s and someone that she saw with regularity in DC, had insisted that there was no need. However, she was required to appear at the Winthrop’s Fourth of July gathering. “You’ll know everybody! We always invite loads of young people. Maybe you’ll meet someone. Deke’s chief of staff recently got divorced. He’s a catch!”
It was Mrs. Winthrop, née Davenport, who had the money, not the congressman, a fact she had announced very loudly and very publicly at one of Deke Winthrop’s first rallies when a constituent asked about how he could be committed to the working man, when he himself came from money. Lucy Davenport Winthrop stood up in the front row, waved her arms, and then said, “It’s my money, not his!” The line got a huge laugh, and it became her catchphrase as she spread her wealth around the Nutmeg State. An early supporter of environmental causes before it was chic, Lucy Winthrop and her money almost single-handedly saved the local wetlands, planted a million tulip bulbs at state and federal buildings, and underwrote the cleanups at local beaches. She used her wealth to fund her daughters’ show-riding careers, securing a national team berth for Delaney and her horse, Topper, and a marriage to a Virginia horse family for her younger daughter, Reagan. There were Caribbean Christmases and board seats on charities in Connecticut, New York, and DC. And, of course, Lucy was one of the regulars at the Red Door, allowing her to claim she’d never gone under the knife, but the word on the street was that the regular visits to Elizabeth Arden smoke-screened her excellent plastic surgery. Lucy Winthrop was wealthy in money and influence, but not in close female friends. Birdie Tucker was the exception.
Had Birdie told Lucy the truth about Serena’s father? Serena guessed no. While the two were dear friends, she suspected that they both hid secrets from each other.
Serena hadn’t spoken to her mother, either, despite the voicemail from seventy-two hours ago. She had had to extricate herself from her DC life and it had taken her full attention. She was surprised how smoothly it all went. Her boss actually appreciated her resignation in advance of the mass firing. The intern was thrilled to be set up in Georgetown for the summer. And she packed up the Range Rover with the items that mattered most, her desktop computer, and her boxes of Sweeney family research. She’d been too busy to check in with her mother, but she’d make the call eventually. This week, for sure.
As she stopped the car, she noticed a gift bag on the porch. She hoped it was a bottle of white wine from the Winthrops because she could use a glass and she hadn’t made it to the store as she’d planned. She picked up the bag and entered the guesthouse, flipping on the lights to reveal a well-decorated open kitchen and living room, done in blues and taupe with mainly contemporary furniture and a few choice antiques. Not her style, but warm and comfortable. The bedroom and bath were upstairs, and there was a large slate patio off the kitchen, which would be beautiful all summer.
No foosball table, Serena thought, recalling her conversation at Cap’s office with her sisters. She’d have to let them know.
She opened the lime-green gift bag and was surprised to pull out a mug with the Wellesley College insignia on it and a note in beautiful penmanship. It read: Serena, I thought you might want this mug. Our father had a large collection of them from various lectures and such that he did over the years. I guess he never spoke at Vassar, because there wasn’t one of those. But Wellesley was the next closest thing, being all-women, too. You should stop by this week for a tour of the house and the boathouse, anytime. Perhaps you’d like to see it before Liza donates everything to Goodwill and Tricia shreds all remaining documents. Hahahaha. Kidding. No, seriously, come by. xo Maggie
Serena stared at the mug, then reread the note. Our father. Yes, Maggie had acknowledged the truth and it touched Serena deeply. She’d already formed her own opinion about all the sisters and it didn’t surprise her that Maggie was the one to reach out. She was the most open, a seeker. This was a huge gesture, and the invitation to see the house, his office, everything before it was sold was exactly the opportunity she had hoped for. The night of the wake, the office had been locked (she had tried the door) and the house itself was too filled with people to do any decent snooping. Yes, Serena would be stopping by this week.
It didn’t even matter that Maggie had gotten the details wrong. Vassar hadn’t been all women since 1969 and William Sweeney had, in fact, appeared there in 1972 as part of an all-male panel discussion about “the pinking” of journalism, an event protested by the Women’s Union on campus. He was a male chauvinist pig, according to the enthusiastic voices of dissent of dozens of undergraduate women who blocked the entrance to his talk, according to Serena’s research. Apparently, this assessment was based on a single Esquire article the new young columnist there had written in praise of women’s legs in short skirts. He was a rookie on the New York publishing scene and his editors had sent him to Poughkeepsie as a sort of hazing ritual that he barely survived. There were photos in the Vassar newspaper of the kerfuffle and a brief mention in the New York Times. Serena wasn’t surprised he never got a Vassar mug.
She wandered into the kitchen, flipping on the lamps in her cottage, feeling more at home and relaxed by the second. She opened the door of the sleek new refrigerator and sure enough, there was a bottle of Chardonnay, a cheese-and-fruit plate, chocolate truffles, coffee and milk for the morning, and a note from Lucy Winthrop: So good to have you back in Southport! Cheers!
Serena opened the Chardonnay and poured the wine into her mug. “Cheers, Dad.”
Chapter 12
Over the last three days, quite a few things had shown up at Willow Lane, including but not limited to: Tim the line cook with an old minivan full of Maggie’s possessions—work-in-progress paintings, paint and brushes, blank canvases; Rufus the cat; trays of sandwiches from Fortuna’s Deli, and a dozen homemade cakes of all kinds from friends and neighbor; bottles of whiskey and hundreds of sympathy cards from William Sweeney fans and admirers around the world expressing condolences; the quiet presence of Raj Chaudhry, who charmed Liza and Maggie and then immediately set to work in the boathouse, much to Tricia’s delight; and finally, a letter from their father’s publisher, Allegory, bypassing his longtime agent, that was both polite (about how sorry they were to hear about their dear friend William Sweeney) and threatening (“But we need that memoir in thirty days or else”) that spooked Liza and enraged Tricia. About the only thing that hadn’t turned u
p was the memoir itself despite a nonstop effort to find it.
When the doorbell rang midafternoon on a Thursday, Liza assumed it was another food delivery from a well-meaning neighbor or school mom who’d missed the service because, in the words of yesterday’s food deliverer, “I was out of town when I heard. Tuscany. It was glorious, but your news was tragic.” (It was, after all, early summer, the official “Best Time to Go to Europe” for the locals, an annual exodus well-documented on Facebook pages with pictures of smiling families at the Louvre or Buckingham Palace with the hashtag #familytime.) Liza had nearly finished organizing the downstairs, everything labeled “Dump,” “Donate,” or “Keep,” in defiance of Whit’s edict. To say the organizing was therapeutic was an understatement. Liza worked out a lot of anger and anxiety filling up a dumpster with old sheets and high school term papers. She’d kept the truth about Whit to herself, sure her sisters hadn’t noticed anything amiss. She couldn’t find the words or the moment to tell them about her failure.
Liza would move upstairs tomorrow, determined to clean out her father’s closet. That was a task none of the sisters wanted to tackle, so Liza, of course, volunteered to do it. She hoped whoever was at the door had thought to bring coffee, too, because she could use a latte. “Coming!” she called.
It was Serena with a tray of lattes.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” Serena said, sensing that her visit was at the very least a surprise and at most a social breach beyond comprehension, judging by the look on Liza’s face. “Maggie invited me. I texted her to let her know I’d be stopping by. Latte?”
“You read my mind. How thoughtful.” Damn it, Maggie. Liza tried not to look too put out by the fact that Maggie had struck up a text relationship with Serena and invited her to Willow Lane. But she was. Maggie had returned from Mill River inspired to paint, not to help, and had set up a studio in the conservatory with Tim’s furniture-moving skills. Clearly, he was more than Maggie’s cat sitter, but Liza and Tricia refused to mention the obvious chemistry between the two because they didn’t want to give oxygen to yet another one of Maggie’s drama-filled relationships. Instead, they treated him like a helpful Uber driver and sent him on his way when he was done.