by Lian Dolan
Maggie studied the handsome guy standing at the stove who had been kinder to her in the last few weeks then any man in recent memory. “Your last name is Yablonski?”
“You know it, baby.” Tim did a little dance at the stove.
Maggie laughed. “Is that the Yablonski shuffle?” Maggie turned to Tricia, resuming their conversation. “I feel terrible for Serena. She should have had a chance to talk to Dad. And he wouldn’t see her. He was never going to see her. I don’t think she should ever know that.”
“I agree.”
“It’s Tricia Sweeney. Here to see Serena Tucker.”
The gate opened slowly at the Winthrops’ estate. Tricia had only been on the property a few times, once to interview the congressman for her high school paper, another time to receive a Daughters of the American Revolution scholarship from DAR member Lucy Winthrop, and a third time to attend a fundraiser for the wetlands with her father. She had no idea how they ended up at a charity event for a cause neither of them cared about, but she remembered the food was mediocre and the white wine was warm, a sure sign that Lucy Winthrop didn’t want the party-goers to linger. Today, Tricia was hoping to get in and out without seeing either the congressman or his wife. She drove down the long driveway toward the main house, as directed by the male voice coming out of the intercom.
Lucy Winthrop was standing under the portico, waving her left hand slightly. Apparently, there was to be an audience with the queen before Tricia was permitted to see Serena. Tricia rolled down her window, hoping to keep it short.
But Lucy Winthrop wanted more. “Hello, Tricia dear. Why don’t you park here? We’ll have some iced tea in the solarium and then you can go visit Serena. Ten minutes is all I need.”
Tricia acquiesced, somewhat curious about what Mrs. Winthrop had to say, even though the cool summer day was better suited to coffee than iced tea. “Sounds lovely.”
Once inside, seated in the wicker chairs, Lucy started in. “First, let me say how very sorry I am about your father. I have spoken to Deke and he’s going to propose some sort of official commendation the next time Congress is in session. Your father was a favorite constituent and a great talent. He’ll be missed here in Southport and around the world. I hope that gives you comfort,” the congressman’s wife said, using her “I speak for him” tone of voice. She was sitting in a heavy wicker chair upholstered in a muted coral fabric, the kind of indoor/outdoor furniture you would never put outside. The sunroom was filled with antique touches like French cachepots, framed Audubon prints, and a stunning Oriental rug. A half dozen large orchids and standing planters of ferns gave the room an exotic feel. Lucy Winthrop looked comfortable and in control as she prepared to serve Tricia.
“Thank you for the wonderful gesture. That will be meaningful.” Tricia imagined hanging the framed commendation up in her office. The partners would like it, Don Donaldson especially. Maybe she’d even go to DC to watch the moment in person, she thought, realizing that after a lifetime of being present at ceremonies and galas in her father’s honor that there would be only a handful of such obligations left.
Lucy poured out two tall glasses of iced tea and added a sliver of lemon with silver tongs. “By the looks of you, you don’t take sugar. You’re very thin, my dear. Here you are.” Tricia accepted the drink while Lucy continued, “I assume you got my condolence card. I haven’t received anything in return but there’s no rush.”
The custom of forcing grieving families to send thank-you cards for sympathy cards was something Tricia would never understand. But fortunately, Liza did, so she was sure an appropriate acknowledgment would be forthcoming. “You’re very kind to think of us. It was all so sudden, but I know that Liza is working through the thank-yous. She’s very conscientious. We’ve all had tasks to do since my father’s death.” There was only so far Tricia would go to placate Lucy Winthrop.
“Liza’s a good girl. She is a wonderful asset to our community. I don’t know what Whit is thinking. But that’s a conversation for another time.”
It would have to be because Tricia had no idea how to respond. Was Maggie right again that something was up with Whit and Liza? Tricia went for a vague response. “Yes. We’re all focused on the art opening tonight and then making a joyful homecoming for Vivi and Fitz when camp ends. That’s what sisters are for.”
“Aren’t you a great support system? I hope my girls can rally together if they ever face a real challenge,” Lucy said, implying that the lives of her daughters, Delaney and Reagan Winthrop, had been a breeze up until now, even though Tricia suspected the elder had an eating disorder and the younger married for status rather than love and spent more time with her horses than her husband. At least that’s what her Southport friends implied when they got together over the holidays to catch up. “Speaking of sisters, I know the truth about Serena. From Serena’s lips and from Birdie’s. She’s here now.”
“Serena?”
“Well, yes, Serena is here but I meant Birdie. She arrived yesterday to talk with Serena.” Lucy Winthrop’s voice had the tone of a woman feigning sympathy and dying to dish with one tiny push from Tricia.
“I see. About what, I wonder?” Tricia knew what was happening. She proceeded with caution.
“About the whole . . . you know. They talked all morning and through lunch. According to Birdie, it was emotional and exhausting. Birdie is lying down and I imagine Serena is doing the same.”
“Sounds like it was a difficult conversation.” Tricia had heard enough, from Lucy Winthrop anyway. She wasn’t giving the world-class gossip any more encouragement.
“Aren’t you curious about the details?”
“Curious is the wrong word. I’m interested because it involves my family as well, but I’ll let Serena decide when and if she wants to tell us about the conversation. It’s really her decision, her life.”
“I can see why Cap admires you so much. You’ve always had a good head on your shoulders, even as a teenager. You went through a lot with great reserve. So, I ask you this, please consider all the people in this story before you make any announcements. As a congressman’s wife, I understand what it’s like to put public perception first. I’ve lived with that restriction for decades. There are real people to consider and, of course, the reputation of the town. Be thoughtful.”
In a flash, Tricia felt the generational chasm open. There were no heroes in this story. Both William Sweeney and Birdie Tucker had served their own needs first and foremost, hiding the truth from each other, their spouses, and their daughter. Tricia heard Maggie’s voice in her head questioning why everything needed to be a secret. Now, Lucy Winthrop was suggesting that the next generation play along, so nobody, including “the town,” got damaged. What a crock. “Mrs. Winthrop, I believe that everybody has a right to tell their own truth. Or not. You forget, my sisters and I are the daughters of two storytellers—one in prose; one in poetry. We revere stories. And Serena does have a tale to tell.”
As soon as Tricia said it out loud, she knew she believed it. Her father’s memoir. Maggie’s speech last night. The book she was sure Serena was working on. Everyone had a truth. “I’m going to knock on Serena’s door now. Thank you for the iced tea. Perhaps we’ll see you at the gallery opening tonight. My sister Maggie will be debuting a stunning piece painted right here in Southport. The show is called Still Life with Sunflowers. There’s a period after ‘Still’ and ‘Life.’ Get it?” Tricia said as she stood up.
Oh, Lucy Winthrop got it. The conversation was over. Lucy Winthrop, used to dining with presidents and billionaires and celebrity environmental activists, would surely turn down the invitation. She wasn’t playing second fiddle to a bunch of sunflowers.
Lucy Winthrop watched Tricia walk away like she had watched Serena walk away last night. How had she never noticed the resemblance? Two peas in a pod.
“What I said at the house was petty. I was speaking about legal standing, but I understand that it didn’t sound that way. I’m sorry. I apol
ogize for the hurt I caused,” Tricia declared, standing at the door of the carriage house, using the words she tried out with Raj. She was good with straightforward, but stymied by emotional depth. She felt like she walked the line with her apology, sincere and heartfelt. She noticed Serena looked foggy. “Did I wake you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry for that, too.” Serena was wearing the sort of lounge pajamas people wore in TV shows, a bit dressy for a midday nap, Tricia thought.
“I needed to get up.”
“Are you coming to the opening? Liza will kill me if you’re not there. She said she couldn’t have gotten the show up and the word out without you. She would love to have you there. Plus, you could just wear those fancy PJs.”
“My mother gave them to me. A silk peace offering after four decades of deception.” The two women laughed. Then Serena asked, “Is that why you’re here? To get me to the gallery opening?”
“Not entirely. I read our father’s book this morning.”
Our father. Tricia had said it, finally. Serena waved her into the living room. “I’m going to make a coffee. Do you want an espresso?”
“Yes!” Tricia nodded. “I make one every afternoon at the office.”
“I do, too.” Serena moved into the open kitchen and fired up the espresso maker. “This is about the only thing I know how to make.”
“I have no kitchen skills, either. It’s why I’m assigned wine at every family event. Liza used to try to make me cook squash and I couldn’t handle it.”
“Maybe after-dinner coffee will be my assignment,” Serena said, setting down a steaming cup in front of Tricia.
“Yes.” Tricia took a sip. “So, should we talk about what your mother told you and what my father’s book told me?”
“I think we should.”
“Did you know your mother was Elspeth?”
Serena swallowed the espresso. “I found out this morning in my conversation with her. How did you know?”
“I found out this morning after reading it in our father’s memoir.”
“It’s in there?”
Tricia nodded. “His side of the story anyway. You can read it and see if it matches hers. It looks like it was a real love story.”
“That’s how my mother described it. At least when they first met. The second time around, not so much.”
“That’s good to know. My father doesn’t say much about the second time around. So, I’m going to carry that with me to help me work out my feelings of anger on behalf of my mother. But now you can name the book you’re not writing Elspeth’s Daughter.”
“That’s a pretty good title.”
“I agree.” Tricia laughed.
“I thought my mother was privileged to have been immortalized in Million Zillion, but inspiring two William Sweeney characters is quite an honor.”
“Elspeth and Wren.” Serena seemed surprised that Tricia understood the reference. No one was going to beat Tricia at Bill Sweeney Jeopardy! “I’ve been doing my research, too.”
“I’m sure you have.”
“Serena, this situation is a mess. Our father’s death didn’t make it any simpler. Raj said to me today that there is no road map for this. I have to work through a lot of stuff right now. You’re part of that stuff. As my sisters will tell you, I’m sure I’ll underwhelm you with my emotional intelligence. But I’m trying to say that I’ll try to be a part of your life if that’s what you want and I’m hoping you’ll let me.”
“My mother asked me today if I would have cared the same if I found out my father was a random sperm donor. I said I would have cared either way, but I don’t know if that’s entirely true. My motives may not have been pure. Being William Sweeney’s daughter has a certain glamour to it that being donor #4798’s daughter doesn’t have. I need to work through my stunted emotional intelligence, too.”
“Fair enough. We don’t have to figure this all out today,” Tricia said.
“That’s true.”
“But what I do know is that I respect your right to do whatever you wish with your story. You don’t owe us anything, Serena, except maybe a heads-up when the book you’re not writing comes out. And Maggie will insist on a very flattering photo of her on the book jacket, so you’ll have to shell out for her hair and makeup at the shoot.”
Serena studied Tricia. “When I came to the wake, I was looking for something, some connection to your family. I assumed it would be through your father, but seeing you all together again reminded me of the envy I felt when we were kids and you’d walk down the lane together laughing and singing. You were the same twenty years later. I see what you do for each other—you cover for each other. I haven’t had that in my life. I’ve been out there on my own. No one to provide coverage. It’s a new concept to me.”
“I guess you’re right. I never thought of it like that, but that’s what ends up happening. One of us is always having a crap year or decade and the others step in. You might want to take some time to decide whether you want to be part of that in perpetuity.” Tricia looked at her watch. She had to get moving. “I have to go. Liza needs our help at the gallery. I do hope you swing by. It would mean a lot to Liza and so it would mean a lot to me.”
“I’ll see.”
“Oh, I asked your landlord, Lucy Winthrop, too. I think she was appalled to get a verbal invitation and not a handwritten note on Tiffany stationery. Good to have the old guard still around to keep us in our places, right?”
Serena almost made a joke about her mother being ready to pass judgment at the drop of a hat, but realized that might be premature. Finding a spot for Serena in the Sweeney family was one thing. Finding a spot for Birdie and Mitch Tucker might be a bridge too far.
Chapter 22
“I have five minutes and I need to tell you something,” Liza said to her sisters in the back office of Sweeney Jones. The gallery doors were set to open in about a half hour, but the mood at the gallery was calm, like the staff had been through this drill dozens of time. Emily, Liza’s longtime assistant gallery manager, and Jenny, her Sunday salesperson and social media whiz, were both in black and moving about the space, seeing to last-minute details. After a brief thunderstorm, the evening sun was streaming through the clouds and the humidity was at what Liza called “Optimum Balmy” in terms of going out at night without a sweater. There would be a good crowd, Liza was sure. Tricia and Maggie had arrived separately, but on time, a family trait, and they were ready to do their part to make the night a success.
Liza looked lovely in a slinky black dress, strappy sandals, and a fresh blowout. She was confident about the show, but that wasn’t what she needed to talk to her sisters about. “Whit and I are separated. It happened a few weeks ago and I didn’t tell you because we agreed not to say anything to anyone over the summer. We wanted to be sure where we were headed. But, apparently, he doesn’t view it as a trial separation. It’s come to my attention that other people in town know, so you might hear someone say something tonight. I didn’t want you to be blindsided. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, but I couldn’t deal . . .” Her voice trailed off, thick with emotion.
“You don’t have to be sorry. We’re sorry, Liza,” Maggie said. She was dying to blurt out that she’d known something was up and that she’d spotted Liza and Gray making out, which she felt better about now that she knew Whit and Liza were separated, but still not entirely happy about. But Maggie kept her mouth shut. She wanted to sell that painting tonight. “You’re amazing to be standing here after everything that’s happened in the last month.”
“Do you need anything from us tonight?” Tricia asked, although she had about eight million other questions, especially about whether Liza had signed a prenup or contacted a lawyer.
“Do me a favor—don’t say anything unkind about Whit to anyone. Not tonight, not ever. Let’s rise above this for the twins’ sake. And don’t say anything to his parents, if they are here. I don’t know if they even know. Everything will reflect back
on Vivi and Fitz, so acknowledge the truth but move on. Got it?”
Both sisters nodded, but Tricia was struggling with the timeline and with Whit. “I don’t understand. How could he tell you one thing and tell everybody else another?”
“I don’t know. Whit is done with me, apparently.”
“What a bastard.” The old Maggie was back. “You’ve always been too good for him. Too pretty, too smart. Much more fun than him. Much more. You totally improved that Jones family gene pool. I mean, Fitz and Vivi are gorgeous because of you, not chinless Whit.”
Tricia tried to silence Maggie. “Okay, no more rosé for you.”
“It’s true,” Maggie said, holding on to her glass.
“But it’s exactly what she doesn’t want us to say.”
Liza agreed. “I need to get through this and then I can give you the full story later, but not tonight. Maggie, this night should be about you and your beautiful piece. And the fact that we’re all here together.” Again, Liza choked up. “You know, Dad rarely came to these openings because, as he said, I don’t serve real booze. But I think it was actually in deference to me. He wanted me to have my own moment. He knew he was a distraction. Maggie, I’m sure he would have been here for you tonight.” All three sisters had tears in their eyes.
“Oh, sisters!” Maggie joked after they collected themselves. “Group hug?”
“It’s too sticky to touch,” Tricia said, fending off Maggie who was coming in, arms outstretched.
“Let’s never change,” Liza said. “Mags, are you ready to be the star? I think you’re going to sell that painting tonight. Did you see the price I put on it?”
“No!”
“Go look.”
Maggie dashed out of the office, leaving Liza and Tricia. Now that Maggie was gone, the two sensible sisters could go a little deeper. The oldest and the youngest sisters connected in a different way when the middle sister wasn’t around to hijack the conversation. Tricia waited a beat, then asked, “I have one question. Did you call a divorce attorney yet?”