“Happy to visit,” said Uncle Matt, through a mouthful of cheese danish. “Just a phone call away!”
Sarah smiled politely, grabbed Sam’s sleeve, and towed her brother into a far corner of the living room. “Good God,” she whispered.
“When are we going to tell them about the books?” Sam whispered back. “We can’t keep it a secret forever.”
“Oh, let them be surprised,” said Sarah. Her mother’s death had been mercifully fast, and at home, as she’d wanted. They’d set up a bed in the living room, in front of the windows, making sure Ronnie could see every sunset. During one of her last lucid days she’d told Sarah that she’d left books behind, in a closet, and Sarah had found the boxes, an even dozen of them, each in its own plastic box, in the closet on the guesthouse’s second floor. Ronnie had left a letter on top, with a man’s name and address. When Sarah had asked who Gregory Bates was, her mother had said, “Old friend,” before falling asleep—or pretending to fall asleep. Sarah was almost completely convinced that he was her mother’s old lover, the man she’d been with while she’d been with Sarah’s father and had eventually decided to leave behind. But so far, Gregory hadn’t suggested that he’d known their mother as anything but an author and a colleague. He told Sarah he was surprised to learn that Ronnie had named him her literary executor—“we hadn’t spoken in years”—but that he was honored. And, now that he’d retired, he had plenty of time to read the books. Six weeks after Sarah had sent him the boxes, Gregory had called to say that he’d read the first three manuscripts, that he had found them sharply observed and smart and compelling—“just the way I remember your mother’s work”—and that, with Sarah’s permission, he would show them to editors in the new year. He felt confident, he said, that Veronica Levy was going to be a published author again. “It’s too bad she won’t be around to enjoy it,” Gregory said, “but I guess she had her reasons.” Sarah was sure he would have welcomed an explanation, had Sarah chosen to give him one; to explain why Ronnie had stepped away from her writing life and how, maybe, he’d played a part in that. So far, though, she hadn’t said a word.
When Eli had asked what the stories were about, Sarah told him about the first book she’d read. “There’re two families in Cape Cod; three generations apiece. One family’s old-money WASPs, in the process of losing their money. The other family’s Jewish, so they’re the new arrivals. There’s a dispute over a property line, and kind of a Romeo and Juliet thing when the youngest son of the WASP family falls in love with the daughter of the Jewish family.” She’d found more than one echo of her own story with Owen Lassiter, and there was a character, a woman who walked away from her husband and her family, who Sarah was pretty sure was inspired by Annette. She hadn’t decided how it felt to have her life mined for fiction, and had been swinging between feeling deeply flattered and slightly exploited. She could hear her mother in her head: That’s what writers do. Maybe it explained why her mom hadn’t liked who she’d been while she was a published author. It certainly explained why Veronica hadn’t wanted these books read until she was gone. Sarah could be angry, but now there was no one to be angry at.
As for Owen Lassiter, he’d texted Sarah for a while, telling her he wanted to explain, pleading for a second chance. Sarah had tried ignoring him. Finally, she’d written back, It was good to see you again, but I think we should leave the past in the past. Sometimes, she worried about Owen getting angry, maybe showing up at her house or, worse, Eli’s office and telling her husband what had happened, but she was pretty sure he wouldn’t. He’d lied to her and broken her heart when they were teenagers. She hoped he’d be honorable enough to respect her wishes now.
“Are you concerned about this?” Gabe murmured, sidling over to Sam and nodding at Ari, who’d just brought Amanda another mimosa.
“We are,” Sam replied, “but what can we do?”
“We can tell her no,” Gabe offered. “We can tell her there’s a moratorium on people from my family dating people from yours.”
Eli opened his mouth, then pressed his lips together. “I’m trying to give my brother the benefit of the doubt.”
Sarah smiled at her husband, and Gabe gave Sam’s shoulder a squeeze. Sam had been worried—terrified, really—that his sister and his step-niece would judge him for hooking up with Ruby’s former fiancé, no matter how many times Gabe had told him that Ruby had been the one to do the dumping. “Tell her one woman’s trash is another man’s treasure,” Gabe urged him. Sam had buried his face in his hands.