by Lian Dolan
“Yes.” Liza was no fool. She had called the day after that dinner at the club with Whit, already feeling like she was too late. Sometimes, it was good to live in the same small town forever because she knew exactly who to call, an old school friend, Michelle Esposito. Michelle was a partner in a family law firm in Stamford now. Liza was always a little scared of Michelle growing up. She had four brothers and the mouth to prove it. “Michelle Esposito. Remember her? She was that tough girl on my softball team in seventh grade, that one year I played? The one who cussed at the ref and got thrown out for hurling her bat at the opposing pitcher? I hired her. She’s mean, in a good way.”
“Perfect attribute for a divorce lawyer,” Tricia replied. “And is that why you invited Connor and David for the month? So you wouldn’t be lonely?”
“No, so I wouldn’t be weak and send pathetic texts to Whit.”
“Or Gray? I noticed him noticing you last night.”
“Yeah, longer story there. Do me a favor, if he’s here tonight, keep him away from me. He makes me do stupid things.”
“Will do. And I should tell you this, I apologized to Serena. I think she’ll show tonight, but I can’t guarantee it. Her mother arrived last night and I guess they had a tough conversation.”
“I can’t imagine.” Liza shook her head as if she were really trying to picture the scene in her head. “I can’t stop thinking about what we would have said to Dad about all of this, if he hadn’t died. I get furious thinking about it.”
“Me, too. I do a lot of yelling at him on my runs. I call him selfish, indulgent, accuse him of hubris in the highest degree. Then I feel terrible for Serena that he didn’t want to see her. What a coward.”
“I hate to think of him that way. Honestly, I don’t want to read the book,” Liza confessed.
“Then don’t. You’ve already done so much for him, for us. I’m reading it so you and Maggie don’t have to.”
“Thank you.”
In that moment, Liza looked more vulnerable than Tricia had ever seen her big sister, so she switched the topic to something they could rally around. “You don’t think we have to be nice to Birdie Tucker, do you? I mean, she’s not family, right?”
“Oh, no. She’s not family. We don’t have to be nice to her.” The sisters were united on this. Their definition of family would extend only so far.
“Good. One more thing. I was forced to have a conversation with Lucy Winthrop today and I should tell you that she knows about you and Whit.”
Liza’s head jerked up. “What did she say?”
“Something about you being an asset to the community and Whit was a fool.”
“Well, if that’s the best sentiment I can get out of this mess, I’ll take it. But seriously, how did she know?”
“I don’t know.” But the Sweeney sisters knew: it was a small town with long tentacles. Not only did everybody know everybody, everybody knew everybody’s prep school roommates, college friends, or summer camp bunkmates. Everybody knew everybody’s debutante escorts, bridesmaids, and birth class pals. They all shared a common acquaintance from some study abroad program in high school or law school class. Amongst a certain stratum in Connecticut, the six degrees of separation was reduced to two: you and the nearest person in boat shoes.
“I can deal with that later. Now, I have to deal with this,” Liza said, pointing out into the gallery, convincing herself more than anyone. “Did Maggie buy Tim all new clothes for tonight? He actually has on pants.”
“She did. FYI, she put it on your credit card.”
The gallery sparkled and buzzed. The sparkle came from the gleaming faces of the patrons, in full summer regalia with freshly showered skin after their day on the beach or the golf course, renewed tans and pink attire on the men with their whale-embroidered khaki shorts and the women in their sensible sheath dresses. Sweeney Jones had attracted the locals and their weekend guests en route to dinner. The locals were eager to show off the sophistication of their little village and the visitors were charmed by the art, which was, in the words of one Manhattanite, “Not terrible. Really pretty good.”
The buzz came from Bill Sweeney, as it often did. Even though he was gone, his name was on every art lover’s lips. You know, the owner is the daughter of William Sweeney. The neighbors told me Bill Sweeney’s wake went on till all hours. Such pretty girls; they must miss their father. The artist who painted Panes of Gold is Mary Magdalene Sweeney; she dedicated the piece to her father.
Liza was pleased at the size of the crowd, but even more pleased about the genuine collectors who had shown up on a holiday weekend to see the collection of Kat Ryan’s sunflowers that she had featured on the postcard. There were already three red dots next to Kat’s vibrant oils in the first half hour. Kat was beaming and she was a wonderful salesperson of her own work. When you met Kat, not only did you want to buy her painting, you wanted to be her best friend. She talked about her work in an earthy, pragmatic way that even neophytes could appreciate. Connor and David had been entranced by the work and the artist and were the first to buy, then the red dots accumulated. Liza loved getting her gut instinct validated. There may be other gallery owners with better credentials, but not better instincts.
Other artists in the show were present as well. Vincent Williams from Chatham on the Cape had three abstracts in the show, heavily influenced by warm shades and organic lines, lovely paintings for the risk averse. His work was very strong and so was his jawline. He wore a blue linen shirt and black jeans to every event and women never failed to notice that his eyes matched his shirt.
Maxie Chow, a Brooklyn artist whom Liza had stumbled upon at a street fair in Red Hook one Sunday when she and Vivi were having a girls’ weekend in the city, stood next to her lithographs in neon-orange overalls and a black bra, inspiring more than a few furtive glances from the men in the gallery. Maxie’s work was firmly rooted in Pop Art, but the half dozen pieces that Liza had shown previously sold quickly to more adventurous collectors. Her saturated portraits of animals with still life elements brought an urban energy to the gallery. As Maxie explained to Liza, “Imagine if Warhol had liked dogs and rabbits and guinea pigs as much as he liked Marilyn Monroe.” Though the subject matter was quotidian, Maxie was a skilled printmaker and Liza knew she would be big someday.
But the star of the night was Maggie’s piece, Panes of Gold. All night long, there was a steady murmur around the painting. The locals responded because it was an unexpected, ethereal view of Southport Harbor, a familiar subject usually painted in crisp tones of red, white, and blue, but not in Maggie’s version. The collectors responded because William Sweeney’s daughter, in the weeks after his death, had created a painting that seemed to shimmer on the wall. Maggie, in a long green dress and an oversized silver sunflower necklace, never moved more than five feet from the painting all night.
“My father once told me to use my pain and make my work sing and that’s exactly what I did,” Liza overheard Maggie telling her story to an attractive couple from Tribeca who started the interior design firm Meeks & Beauregard, named after their corgis. (Liza could never remember the actual names of the men when they wandered into the gallery, so she thought of the short one as Meeks and the tall one as Beauregard.) She watched Meeks snap several photos and send them off, presumably to a client who was in the Hamptons or Watch Hill or Kennebunkport for the holiday. That’s when she knew she had priced the work right. Expensive enough to get extra attention, but modest enough to get sold. The price tag was a big leap up for Maggie. I hope she can keep producing, Liza thought, and doesn’t do another disappearing act.
That’s when Liza heard Beauregard ask the million-dollar question of Maggie, “Are you working on anything else? We’d love to come by your studio.”
“I have a million ideas. Let’s set up a time for a studio tour.” Sometimes, it was an asset that Maggie could lie like a champion.
Tricia waved Cap over. He was good to put up with a Sweeney event two nights in
a row. Tall and trim in his white button-down and Nantucket reds, Cap made his way through the crowd, speaking to several familiar faces briefly before reaching Tricia. “Hello, my dear.”
“I didn’t expect to see you tonight. I thought last night’s chaos would be enough for one weekend.” The two kissed cheeks.
“Only here for ten minutes. I wanted to see Maggie’s painting. It’s something.”
“Yes, if only she could sustain the effort.”
“She’ll find her way,” Cap said for the hundredth time about Maggie. “Did you have a chance to read any of the memoir?”
“Through Chapter Four, then I had to take a break after that bombshell. You?”
“I scanned the whole thing.”
“Did you know about Birdie?”
“I didn’t know that much about Birdie,” Cap said. “There’s a lot more to come in the book, Tricia. A warning.”
His grave tone surprised her. He wasn’t prone to drama. “I don’t think Liza and Maggie are even going to crack it open.”
“Good,” Cap said. “That’s wise. At least for now.”
“I’ll finish it by Monday when we meet.”
The two lawyers understood each other. The task was no longer personal, it was business. A similar thought occurred to Tricia about the Liza situation. “You should know, Liza and Whit are separated. Liza thought it was temporary, a trial separation, but it appears Whit has made some moves to indicate that it’s permanent.”
“Oh, dear. I’m not surprised. Whit seemed to tolerate your father, but that was a wedge, for sure. The timing is cruel. That seems beneath him. His mother will be appalled. She’s very fond of Liza; I’d say fonder of her than him. Lolly Jones will not be happy with her son. Liza has a lawyer?”
“Michelle Esposito.”
“She’s good.” Cap looked across the crowd to where Liza stood, speaking animatedly to a couple interested in the Vincent Williams abstracts. Liza’s warmth reminded Cap of Maeve. He wished the girls had gotten to know their mother better, the Maeve before the cancer and the long slow march of treatment and pain. The Maeve who could stand in the corner of one of Bill Sweeney’s book events and draw the crowd to her even though Bill had the bigger personality. “I’ll reach out to Liza next week and connect with Michelle Esposito if she needs me to. There may be questions about your father’s estate that she needs answered. I enjoyed getting to talk to Raj last night. He seems like a fine young man.”
“Yes, he is.” Raj had positioned himself as Tim’s barback, restocking the wine and the beer while Tim poured for the thirsty crowd intent on shaking off their Fourth of July overindulgence with more indulgence. Cap and Tricia stood quietly, taking in the scene. Both knew there would be a letdown for Maggie and Liza, the end of a period of intense emotions and effort that started with their father’s death and ended tonight. Tricia had a sudden thought. “I’m glad I took the summer off. I don’t know if I can go back.”
Cap was about to respond when a familiar voice interrupted, “There they are! The brain trust, huddled in the corner as usual.”
It was Lois Hopper, William Sweeney’s agent. She was wearing her signature black hat. She was the last person either one wanted to see at that moment. With Tricia’s approval, Cap had hired a forensic accountant to dig into whether Lois had been skimming off the top of the royalties. They’d get an answer soon, but neither wanted to tip off Lois that they were investigating her accounting. Her presence here was alarming.
“Kisses, kisses,” Lois said, waving her hands in the general direction of Cap and Tricia. She wasn’t getting anywhere near their faces. “So . . . how is it?” she asked. She could only be referring to the memoir.
Tricia and Cap played dumb while mentally going through the exercise of who could have been the leaker. Tricia guessed an accidental leak from Nina or Devon who told someone at Yale who told someone in publishing in New York who knew someone spending the weekend at Lois’s house in Westport. Cap assumed it was David or Connor who texted a friend in Montauk after one last glass of late-night wine who mentioned it on the beach the next day to a former editor at Allegory whose niece was an intern in Lois’s agency. Either way, she knew something was up.
“The show is great, isn’t it? What a surprise to see you here. I don’t think of you as a visual arts connoisseur, Lois.” Tricia remained unruffled and Cap remained silent.
“Not the show, dolly, the book! My sources tell me you have the memoir in hand. That’s great news for all of us,” Lois said, as if it was a given they were all on the same team, despite her threatening emails and terse voicemails over the last month. “The situation was starting to get very tense with Allegory.”
The situation in the gallery was starting to get tense for Tricia. Of all the characters who hung around Willow Lane as detritus of William Sweeney Inc., Lois Hopper stood out to Tricia as the least genuine, the most in it for the money and not for love of the written word. Maybe it was the stupid hat. Or maybe she did have a secret life, like Maggie suggested. “Oh, I wouldn’t say we found the memoir. That’s a stretch. We found some pages that we’re taking a look at. We’ll let you know next week if there’s anything there. They could simply be nonsense, an aborted effort. You know how my father wrote, Lois, tossing out thousands of words before settling in on a final draft. That may be the case here.”
“We have a William Sweeney scholar from Yale evaluating the material. Raj Chaudhry. Very bright guy,” Cap added, playing off Tricia expertly. Tricia looked up at that moment to see Raj mingling amongst the crowd refilling glasses of Chablis and chatting with her Aunt Frannie.
Lois was not appeased. “I have stuck my neck out time and time again for your father. Now that he’s gone, I’m not inclined to get my head chopped off. William Sweeney would have faded into obscurity without me. I made him relevant again. I have a reputation to protect. I hope you both understand me. Whatever those pages are, whatever that guy from Yale says, we need to turn something in to Allegory by the end of the month or they will file suit. Then they’ll want to see all your father’s papers, everything, so unless those pages are grocery lists, I suggest you release them to the publisher without these lousy stall tactics.”
Tricia took a deep breath. She had been right all along about Lois being insincere, not a genuine believer. The meal ticket was dead and she was done. That gave Tricia immense satisfaction and courage. “Thank you for letting us know where you stand, Lois. Tonight is my sisters’ night and we’re done talking to you about my late father’s legacy. Rest assured, by the end of the month, this will all be settled. Believe me, you won’t be required to stick your neck out any longer for one of the great writers of his generation. You can go back to repping celebrity cookbooks and all those exercise guides from reality TV stars. Now, if you’ll excuse, my aunt is here. I’m going to say hello.”
Tricia walked away thinking, I can be mean in a good way, too.
Cap bowed, signaling the end of the conversation. “Good night, Lois. We’ll be in touch.”
Maggie caught her breath when she saw Serena and Gray come through the door together. Oh my God, this is getting complicated. But then she spotted Lucy Winthrop attempting a grand entrance behind Serena, pausing in the doorway, raising her chin and giving a little wave as if she were walking the step-and-repeat at a gala. No one noticed Lucy’s entrance but Maggie, much to Lucy’s chagrin, who looked right through Maggie and covered her embarrassment with some manufactured waves to imaginary friends in the back of the room. Please don’t let me become like that in my old age, thought Maggie.
Maggie motioned to Serena, who worked her way through the thinning crowd, Gray by her side. She was still suspicious of the two of them together, but she tried to let it go and gave Serena a quick hug. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me, too. What a crowd. Oh, Maggie. It looks amazing now that it’s completed. Really lovely.”
“It’s special, Mags.” Gray gave her a warm embrace, a warm brotherly emb
race. Maggie knew right then that last night with Liza was real and whatever happened with her was not. “I’m going to take partial credit.”
“Why would you take partial credit, Gray dear?” Lucy Winthrop joined the circle, focusing her attention on Gray and ignoring Maggie again. “Oh, look, it’s the Dumbarton place.” Lucy moved in for a closer look and to inspect Maggie’s technique. Even she had to admit, the painting was evocative.
“Yes, you recognize it. Maggie captured the view from my parents’ house at sunset, Mrs. Winthrop,” Gray explained just as Liza arrived in the vicinity. She’d come to welcome Serena and hadn’t noticed Gray standing there. Now she was trapped.
“Of course. Your parents hosted so many gathering for Deke, I recognized it right away. It’s what you see from your porch looking across the harbor to the houses on Sasco Hill. Panes of Gold. Yes, you captured it,” Lucy Winthrop said, reading the information and then looking Maggie up and down, not sure what to make of her tangle of hair and necklaces. “Hello, Liza dear. What a charming little event.”
“Thank you. It’s an honor for you to make time for Sweeney Jones.” Liza nodded to her guest, who clearly felt she was distinguished. Then she looked at Maggie for confirmation. “I thought you said this was the view from Perry Park?”
“Close to that.” Maggie tried to brush it off. “Look, Serena’s here.”
“Yes, I see.” Liza reached out and gave her hand a squeeze, but stayed on task. “The Cunningham house isn’t close to Perry Park. It’s a half mile down Harbor Road.”
“Well . . .” Maggie said, as a way of explaining nothing. She was always at her worst when she was backed into a corner; lashing out was her exit strategy. “It’s a harbor view. Why does it matter exactly which vantage point? I was having dinner at Gray’s and the sun was setting and the windows lit up like panes of gold. And I painted it.”