The Sweeney Sisters Read online

  Dedication

  For my seven siblings

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Lian Dolan

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  “Does this come in teal?”

  Liza looked up from her computer and tried not to make any noise that would indicate her disdain. In the decade since she’d opened the Sweeney Jones Gallery, she’d heard them all before—Does this come in teal? Do you have this one in a larger size? Can you find me something that goes with chocolate brown?—questions that indicated the customer had a limited knowledge of art, but quite possibly an unlimited budget for it. These two, staring at the front of the gallery, must be empty nesters with time, money, and a few blank walls, Liza guessed. She didn’t want to embarrass the tan woman in the bright yellow sundress. Or her companion, the man in the golf shirt embroidered with the company logo of a local hedge fund (Olympus? Pegasus? Icarus? They were all the same). But Liza didn’t have to indulge them, either; she wasn’t concerned about her Yelp rating for customer service.

  As the owner of the gallery, Liza had an obligation to her artists and to her own reputation. Was Liza going to discover this generation’s Basquiat painting sailboats and golden labs somewhere in coastal Connecticut? Of course not. But she wasn’t managing a Pier One, either.

  “I can’t say that we have that exact oil in teal,” Liza said, rising from behind her desk and making her way over to the couple near the entrance of the gallery. “The artist is Anna Oakland. She lives in the area and much of her work involves the natural world, capturing Long Island Sound, the marshes, the wetlands, our flora and fauna. But her gift is truly abstracting the traditional landscape or still life. This piece is a study of the dogwood trees that bloom here in May, hence the pinkness of the piece. So, no, the piece doesn’t come in blue because dogwoods don’t come in blue. But we have more of her work in the gallery, including several paintings of Southport Harbor. They’re . . . teal-ish. You might find what you’re looking for upstairs. Let me show you.”

  “Oh, thank you. We’re visiting from Jacksonville. I mean, my husband’s here for work and meetings and such . . .”

  “Honey, she doesn’t need our whole life story,” the husband said, cutting off his wife as Liza imagined he’d done a thousand times.

  “I want her to know that we’re visiting but adore her little town. It’s like a postcard, but better. I thought a sweet little painting in our guest bathroom would be a lovely souvenir.”

  Southport was a postcard to the untrained eye: two- and three-hundred-year-old historic homes, most in pristine condition with expensive paint jobs; glorious landscaping and water views; built around a charming harbor, once of importance during the time of the Revolution. Its antiques shops, art galleries, a gourmet food market, a classic pharmacy, and beloved restaurants and bars had remained impervious to chain stores and financial ups and downs. Even the fire hydrants, painted like Colonial sailors in blue jackets and tricorn hats, were Insta-perfect. From the outside, the town hadn’t changed since the 1700s. Inside the pre-Revolutionary saltboxes, the Greek Revivals and the Victorians, though, it was a different story altogether.

  “What a lovely idea,” Liza responded, as if Lady Jacksonville had single-handedly cracked the Code of Decorative Arts. In truth, about 20 percent of Liza’s business was exactly this: aspirational purchases by visitors from all over the country who found themselves smitten by what this Connecticut town promised—tradition and propriety—fiercely protected and quietly preserved. “Where New York meets New England,” as the town’s website declared. It was exactly why she represented artists like Anna Oakland who could take the familiar (New England) and push it slightly forward toward the edge (New York). And a thousand-dollar sale is a thousand-dollar sale, Liza thought, moving confidently toward the staircase. Not bad for a Wednesday morning.

  Liza was, as a lifelong resident of Southport who had taken several years of art history courses in college (okay, the University of Vermont and she didn’t technically graduate, but still), an expert with ten years of experience curating a collection of tasteful contemporary oils, watercolors, lithographs, and the occasional mixed media piece that hit the sweet spot where abstract art meets interior design. She had a good eye, a deep respect for her artists, and the cultured veneer her clientele trusted. Liza understood the importance of this combination of assets.

  She had been raised well and married better, at least in terms of financial stability. Her business was a success and not the tax write-off her husband, Whit, expected when he gave her a lease and seed money as a Christmas gift, thanks to his particularly large bonus that year. As Whit handed her the keys to the front door, he said, “Here’s a little something to keep you busy.” Liza did get busy, creating a space for art that the townspeople could point to as a sign of their impeccable taste and which she could use to establish her own identity outside of her father’s well-known reputation or her husband’s centuries-old local heritage.

  So, no, Liza didn’t have to indulge her visitors, but she also understood, after ten years in sales, that you never really knew who had money and who didn’t. She’d made that mistake early in her career, judging a client by his brand of shoes and letting him walk out the door, learning later that he was a newly minted billionaire. Never again would she let her unconscious bias against cheap footwear or loud clothing cloud her business practices. Just then, her cell phone rang. The screen flashed the name “Julia Ruiz,” her father’s housekeeper, a title that didn’t even come close to describing the services and the peace of mind she’d provided over the last two decades. Julia was more like an entire home-care agency in one: housekeeper; day nurse; cook; dog groomer; plant waterer; and life coach. She had come to work for the Sweeney family when Liza’s mother was sick and never left. After Maeve died, she cared for Liza’s younger sisters, Maggie and Tricia, and now, for her aging father.

  Liza had been Julia’s point person since day one; the two of them kept the Sweeneys on track. It was unusual for Julia to call in the middle of the workday. She usually communicated via text or fridge Post-it note. “Excuse me, please,” Liza said to her new best friend, who was headed to the second floor. “I have to take this. Feel free to poke around on your own upstairs. I’ll meet you in a minute.”

  What Liza would remember when she thought back on that phone call was the pleading in Julia’s voice, so unlike her usual softly accented pragmatism, as if rushing to the big house on Willow Lane could have made a difference. Liza would remember the whoosh of panic that swept through her, giving way to complete focus, allowing her somehow to explain to the Floridians that she had to close the gallery immediately due to a family emergency.

  The man in the golf shirt looked concerned. “Is there anything I can do to be of service?”

  Apologizing while ushering them out of the door of Sweeney Jones, Liza reassured them, “
It’s nothing serious, only something that needs my attention. I understand you’re leaving Southport, but please, let me get your contact information. I’ll have my assistant send you photos this afternoon of some paintings that would be perfect for your guest bathroom. We’ll cover the shipping as a thank-you.”

  While the husband handed Liza a card, the wife asked if she could let them know the paint color of the gallery door, as long as she was going to be emailing them. “This is the kind of blue I’m looking for.”

  “It’s Benjamin Moore Kensington Blue,” Liza said so automatically she startled the wife.

  “Well, thank you. Honey, can you put that in your phone?” She turned to Liza with her own surprise, a warm hug that Liza accepted. “I hope everyone in your family is fine. God bless you.”

  “God bless you” was something that Liza could never pull off saying in a million years, but coming from the petite blonde in the yellow sundress, Liza found the sentiment comforting. It allowed her to take a deep, deep breath to steady her hands so she could lock the door of the gallery. She didn’t even bother with the alarm. She’d call her assistant Emily or her Sunday saleswoman Jenny once she got to Willow Lane.

  But first, Elizabeth Sweeney Jones had to call her sisters.

  Chapter 2

  Maggie poured herself another cup of coffee, wrapped her long red hair in a bun, and wondered how much longer she should let the guy in her bed sleep. It was nearly eleven. Surely it was time for Tim to go. She had errands to run and maybe even a stop at the cheap hair place near the grocery store for a cut before that thing she was supposed to go to this weekend. What was it? A summer kickoff cocktail party? Something like that. She might even paint, and Tim’s being around was not conducive to painting. Today felt like a good day and she wanted to make the most of it.

  Jesus, Maggie, a line cook? she thought to herself. She knew Tim was yet another poor choice, but on the hierarchy of all the poor choices she’d made since she was about sixteen, Tim was pretty low level. It was the eight-year difference in their ages that was the biggest strike against him. He was a cook at the only decent restaurant in godforsaken Mill River, a tiny town in the western part of Connecticut where she was spending a year as an artist-in-residence, with free housing, studio space, and a few public appearances to earn her keep. The age difference would have been nothing if she were the twenty-six-year-old and he were the thirty-four-year-old because she always had fancied herself sophisticated, an old soul.

  But she had put a lot of distance between herself and naive Tim in the last decade: a starter marriage at twenty-three (as her sister Liza had said, “Oh my God, sleep with the bartender, don’t marry him”); several failed attempts at finishing college, one ending in a hospitalization after she’d swallowed too many pills; a short stint in LA as an actress but mainly as the live-in girlfriend of a rising and controlling director; many wild nights, several Coachellas, and one Burning Man, a period of time her sisters referred to as “Maggie Sweeney: The Lost Years”; a recent pilgrimage to India and two hundred hours of yoga teacher training that she negotiated in her breakup with Darren the director; and several bouts of depression that knocked her off her feet for weeks. Tim’s two years as a ski bum at Stowe didn’t really add up against all of Maggie’s life experience.

  He was harmless, but he had to go. Like now.

  “Hey, Tim!” Maggie called out, much more like a camp counselor than the exotic older woman she played last night. “Get up! You gotta go. Now.”

  Her phone rang. It was Liza.

  Damn, Liza was going to bug her about the two paintings she was waiting for—both commissions, both nice paydays, as Liza reminded her in a text last week. Maggie never bothered to reply because, well, she didn’t feel like it. Both paintings needed work and Maggie’s motivation was minimal. How many more of these pleasant, easy pieces could she turn out before her creative spirit turned to stone? Maggie used to have promise, now she had paydays. Occasionally, that demoralized her.

  But she couldn’t tell Liza that. Not the woman who managed a career, two high-achieving children, a husband who was never home, and their difficult father with such efficiency that she even had time for tennis lessons. Liza’s gallery supported Maggie’s entire life, such as it was, and without that representation, Maggie’s work would never see the light of day. They both knew that to be true, although neither one ever mentioned it. This whole residency happened because Liza had forced her to apply and guaranteed by letter that Maggie Sweeney would have a high-profile show at Sweeney Jones at the end of the year. (“You have to get out of LA. Come home. We’ll find a soft landing, but get away from Darren. He’s not good for you,” Liza had said on the phone about eighteen months ago, when Maggie had called her in the middle of the night, seeking guidance, after another huge fight with Darren about one of his on-set affairs with another Next Big Thing. As Maggie had told Liza, “They keep getting younger. I can’t take it.”)

  Liza was right about leaving Darren, leaving LA, and getting back to familiar ground, to a place where people wore black to funerals like they were supposed to. For a few months, Maggie had been on a painting jag. Her work was joyful, filled with the colors of India and highly accessible. Or, in Liza’s words, “Flying off the walls at the gallery.” But the last few weeks, a familiar darkness had lingered, setting Maggie’s output back a bit.

  As supportive as Liza was, Maggie knew she would never really understand how Maggie could spend an entire day going through the mail, puttering around the garden, and then lying in bed scrolling through Instagram accounts of artists she admired and lifestyle influencers she loathed, unable to rally to go to the store for food, never mind her studio for a productive afternoon. Liza would never let her day slip away without accomplishing a single thing.

  Maggie didn’t even bother trying to convey her situation to her younger sister, Tricia, who had emerged from the womb ready to conquer the world, setting and achieving goals with astonishing success: a scholarship to prep school, early admittance to Yale and then Yale Law, completing marathons. Tricia tried to be helpful, swooping in whenever contracts needed to be written or logistics organized, but empathy wasn’t really her strong suit. Maggie was the one Sweeney sister who excelled at emotional intelligence and she alone connected their father with the sisters and the rest of the world. She was the glue that held the whole family together.

  Maggie’s phone pinged with Liza’s voicemail. Maggie ignored it. She’d call her tomorrow, maybe.

  “Tim, are you up? I need to leave, so you need to leave.” Chances were, Maggie wasn’t leaving, but Tim definitely needed to leave. The phone rang again. Again, it was Liza. Reluctantly, Maggie answered. “Hey. Sorry to miss your first call. Running in from the studio. What’s up?”

  When Tim did emerge from the bedroom, Maggie was on the front porch, working as hard as she could not to lose it and holding the cup of coffee she’d made for Tim. “I hope you take milk,” she said.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m not okay. My father . . .” Maggie knew that if she started crying, she wouldn’t stop for a while. “My sister called. My father died.”

  “Oh, dude. I’m so sorry.” Tim, in jeans and a T-shirt that smelled like French fries, slipped into his Vans before hugging Maggie. He pulled away quickly. This wasn’t what he’d bargained for last night at the bar when they flirted over darts. Still, he asked, “Do you need anything?”

  “Can you watch my cat? I have to go home for a few days. The key’s under the mat on the back porch.”

  “Sure. Text me deets.” Tim climbed into his truck and gave Maggie a wave. Today, it suited them both that Tim was young and clueless.

  As he pulled away, Mary Magdalene Sweeney put her head in her hands and sobbed.

  Chapter 3

  Tricia had eight minutes between meetings, so she took to the stairwell. Up, down, up, down between the twenty-third and twenty-fifth floors of her midtown office building, home to the law firm of Kingsley
, Maxwell & Traub. She did most of her best thinking between her office on twenty-three and the conference rooms on twenty-five. She could turn off the soundtrack of the modern workplace, the beeping and pinging of phones, computers, devices everywhere, and concentrate on the regulated reverb of her footsteps on the metal. Her daily thirty minutes of ascending and descending, stolen in eight-minute increments, was as close as Tricia would ever get to the meditation classes that had sprung up all over Manhattan.

  Somedays, it was the only exercise she got. This depressed her, considering at one time she was running seventy miles a week with her college cross-country team. Now she was lucky to do the three-mile loop around the reservoir in Central Park after she got home from work at night, so to the stairwell she went when she had a few extra minutes, tracking her steps like billable hours. Tricia liked to keep track of everything in her life.

  When the phone rang, she cursed. It was Liza and she knew she should take it, but the reception was sketchy in the stairwell. She owed her a call. Normally, she was a conscientious communicator, but this class action suit had taken over her life and she’d slipped into some bad habits, like blowing off friends and family, assuming that they’d all understand the life of a young lawyer. Guilt got her and she answered the call, knowing it would be impossible to carry on a conversation, and spoke before Liza could get a word in. “Hey, let me get to a place where we can talk. Hold on.” Tricia sprinted up the steps two by two and slipped into the hallway on twenty-four, home to the admin staff and law library. The hallway was quiet. Breathing heavily, she asked, “Hey, can you hear me now?”

  “Yes, I can hear you.” Those were the last words Liza spoke that were intelligible for a few minutes. Between Liza’s sobs and her strangled sentences as she choked back tears, Tricia put together the enormity of the situation. Clearly Liza had been composed until she heard Tricia’s voice. Poor Liza. And poor Julia. How awful for both of them.